


Ripples

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [17]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Classes, Cultural Differences, F/M, Gen, Growing Pains, Growing Up, Jedi Temple, Jedi Training (Star Wars), Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Pregnancy, Rivalry, Talking, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 77,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: If you are going to cast stones in ponds, you should expect to get wet.
Relationships: Bail Organa/Breha Organa, Shmi Skywalker/Tholme
Series: The Desert Storm [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311746
Comments: 2074
Kudos: 3153





	1. Chapter 1

Obi-Wan will quietly admit to himself that he’s glad they land on Coruscant in the middle of the night.

It means that the oncoming scolding – and he has no doubt that there _will_ be a scolding – doesn’t happen the moment they step off the ship. Instead, the hanger is quiet save for a few mouse droids and a pair of Temple Guardians doing their rounds. Obi-Wan waves at them, and they nod back, unconcerned.

And then Quinlan rolls out his chittering, scrabbling crate, his master following him with a face like a thundercloud, and they become slightly more concerned.

They don’t make up their minds to cross the hanger until the Nightbrothers start to stumble out, shuffling and jostling and then huddling up like a herd, taking in unfamiliar surroundings. They hadn’t reacted so well to entering Coruscant’s atmosphere and getting hit with the Force of over a trillion living sentients.

Feral is asleep on Savage’s shoulder, and Master Ben strolls out carrying Ravage on his back, the orange-skinned tweenling blinking tiredly, skinny, tattooed arms clinging tight. For all that the Nightbrothers seemed to have a very dominance based culture, even Howl was rather naïve, and when they weren’t challenging each other, they were remarkably sweet.

They really, really didn’t know how to interact with females, though, and Padawan Ventress – who refuses to call him Obi-Wan, and until she does he isn’t calling her Asajj – had spent most of the three day trip hiding from them.

Master Narec and his padawan file out last, both of them presenting carefully concealed nerves.

“Master Naasade?” One of the Guardians inquires, once they’re close enough not to shout. Obi-Wan tries to pick out their ranks on their uniforms – which _was_ the only way to identify a Temple Guard, their order an entity unto its own – and doesn’t know how anyone is supposed to address one over the other when the pair appear to share the same rank. Only Temple Guard Captains revealed their identities, and neither of these two were Captains.

“Yes?”

The Guard pauses, turning their head slightly, and then turns back, having checked something on the internal display of their face-plate. “Your manifest did not include your passenger Ident Profiles. Nor the live cargo.”

“Ah, yes. My passengers do not _have_ Republic Ident’s.” Master Ben replies. “And I was _unaware_ of the live cargo. Not to worry, were heading directly to the Halls.”

Obi-Wan’s not sure that’s entirely true, so much as his master had likely simply _ignored_ the live cargo.

The Temple Guard nods, quietly sighs, and nods again, dismissing themselves. Obi-Wan wonders if there isn’t a flag in their system that _warns_ them about his master.

He wouldn’t be surprised.

They usher everyone to the Halls of Healing, walking slow and taking a slightly longer route to let their dathomiri companions take in the high halls, the artworks and statuaries, the sheer scale of the architecture and the idea that this place was home for them now.

The Halls fuss; dathomiri being a new and isolated species. They have to be decontaminated, scanned, processed, and vaccinated. Quinlan and his _dakunn_ kits get ushered over to the veterinary hall with a sharp reprimand for improper procedure.

Obi-Wan bears his own once-over with patience, taking the suggestion to increase his calcium and iron intake with good humor. It’s the same advice he gets every time they tell him he’s hitting a growth spurt again. His master will be _thrilled_. They ask him a few questions about his wrist and his pain management; he tells them honestly that even with the physical therapy the bones in his bad hand still ache, but that he’s been using gimmer tea as opposed to the tabs he was prescribed. They remind him that the tabs would be more effective, and Obi-Wan nods. They’ve had this discussion before too. He worries about dulling the pain too much, with as hard as he pushes himself in his training, and accidentally doing himself more harm. Pain was a warning.

When he comes out of his own screening, Master Koon has appeared, standing in discussion with Master Tholme, and the imposing figure of the Kel Dor appears to have enthralled the Nightbrothers, capturing their rapt attention as introductions are made.

“Are we in trouble?” Obi-Wan asks, walking up to his master, who is doing an excellent job of fading into the background, senses alert, no doubt, for Master Ni Hiella or Healer Chias. Luckily, neither appears to be on shift.

“Not yet.” His master replies amusedly. “I think we get a reprieve for the night. Master Koon has offered to see our new Disciples settled in.”

“He wasn’t here on Council business?”

“Hm? No. He said he simply felt there was something down here for him.” Master Ben replies, eyeing the councilor and the nightbrothers with interest. “We’ll see how that turns out. Come, let’s make our escape before our luck runs dry.”

“We could Shadow-Walk.” Obi-Wan suggests. Less chance of them getting accosted that way.

His master’s eyes light up. “An excellent suggestion, and on that point, padawan mine – under no circumstances is that a skill you are to pass on to younglings. And to be blatantly specific – _you_ will _not_ teach _Anakin Skywalker_ Shadow-Walking.”

“I wouldn’t-“ Obi-Wan protests.

His master gives him a _look_.

“I wouldn’t.” Obi-Wan repeats. “Honest, Master.”

He’s not an _idiot_. Shmi would kill him.

~*~

Ben shuffles blearily out of his room to answer the door chime, very certain it is way too early for visitors, and wondering if he isn’t about to receive a very abrupt council summons. He blinks at the chrono, but surely the Council doesn’t want to be up at this hour either.

Across the living area, Obi-Wan is similarly attempting to appear awake, his nightshirt haphazardly tucked into his pants, the both of them having had perhaps four hours of sleep after a very long day of travel. The anticipation aboard the _Lighthawk_ had made it almost impossible to catch sleep before their approach to Coruscant, so they’d simply pushed through.

It isn’t the council.

“Shaak. Shmi.” Ben greets, surprised. It isn’t that he isn’t pleased to see them, but… “To what do we owe the pleasure?” The very _early_ pleasure.

Shaak Ti guides her padawan into his quarters, places her on the couch, and then turns with regal reserve to two now increasingly concerned Mandalorian red-heads.

“I need to Knight my padawan within the next seven months, and I would like to request your support.” She says, quite formally.

Ben is taken aback, and so is Obi-Wan. He looks over Shaak Ti, her silver eyes solemn and unreadable, her posture impeccable, and he looks over Shmi, who is stationed in a protected position behind her Master. She seems… a little nervous and a little frustrated. Ben looks from one woman, to the other, trying to make sense of the situation, because he cannot fathom why either woman might ever think they needed to _ask_ for their support.

“I don’t understand.” He and Obi-Wan both remark, puzzled.

Shaak Ti glances to Shmi, whose sharp brown gaze meets her eyes with defiance – and Shaak Ti’s gaze softens deliberately, a quiet reassurance, and Shmi’s draws back, lowering her guard, forcibly relaxing and that is a hair-raising byplay –

Her guard relaxes, and she holds her shields a little less tightly, her Force presence blossoming into the room.

The difference is subtle, and it takes Ben a minute to realize what it represents.

“Oh.” Ben utters, and moves to sit beside her. “Oh, Shmi.” Ben can’t think beyond that, hasn’t the words to say, so he doesn’t. He simply lets her _feel_. Shmi offers a tight smile, a quiet, victorious sort of happiness in her eyes, and Ben clasps her hand between his.

“I don’t – is something wrong?” Obi-Wan inquires.

Ben opens his mouth, but then glances to Shmi. It’s really for her to say. She tilts her chin up proudly – and isn’t that a thing to see, her pride - and answers the padawan.

“I am going to have another child.” She states.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan nods, shoulders relaxing, still bleary eyed. “I’ll make tea.” He offers rotely, and pads into the kitchen, running errant fingers through his hair, teasing out his snarled braid.

Ten seconds later he stumbles back out, wide awake. “Wait, okay, _what_?” The teenager blurts. “I mean – congratulations, and – and, of course you have my support. Our support. I just…” He gestures vaguely, and Shaak Ti trills a laugh.

“Does Tholme know?” Ben inquires. The question prompts a spike of anxiety, but Shmi resolves the emotion quickly, and shakes her head.

“We both knew we were taking the chance.” She replies, and Obi-Wan ducks back into the kitchen with red ears, deciding he may not want to be privy to certain details. “But I have not yet told him.”

“I will be very honest with you, Shmi.” Ben says seriously. “You might wish to tell him in person, but it may be kinder to send him a comm-message. Give him a chance to sort out his own mind before he has the reality of it in front of him.” Tholme was a reserved man – emotional surprises may not elicit the most ideal responses in the moment. Ben didn’t doubt the man’s character, but…

Even a jedi wasn’t above brief panic. Things weren’t so changed in the Temple that the idea of a pregnant jedi – a _padawan in training_ , no less, no matter her age – would be easily acclimated. Ben looks to Shaak Ti, understanding now her urgency and the formality of the request. It would be less….contentious, and chance fewer consequences, if Shmi were already a Knight when she had the baby.

And it wasn’t as if she had to face the danger of the Trials. There is no test the Temple could offer that would rival what she has already faced and overcome.

 _It was going to come up eventually_ , Ben thinks. _The Order’s changing_.

It doesn’t entirely surprise him that a Skywalker had to be first.

Ben glances at Shmi’s stomach.

Another Skywalker.

Another _Skywalker_.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Ben feels both elated and half a second from crying. Shmi says something, and he doesn’t hear it at all, blinking furiously.

“Ben?”

“Sorry.” He manages, forcing out a wobbly half-smile. “I just - sorry.” He shakes his head, letting go of her hand and rising. “You’re having a baby.”

“Yes.” Shmi nods, her gaze concerned, and that’s – ridiculous. Ben is being ridiculous. _She_ should not be concerned about _him_ right now.

But he just-

The first time he met Shmi Skywalker, she was a gravestone in a desert. She’d had only one child, though she’d raised more than that, and because of Ben that one child she’d given up to the Jedi she never got to see again.

And now –

 _Now_.

 _Focus on now_.

On Shmi’s sharp brown eyes. On the kettle whistling in the kitchen. On the cold floor beneath his feet. On the smell of breakfast tea wafting through the room.

Ben sits back down. There’s nothing to taste, but he’s grounded well enough by then not to need it. He takes a deep breath, looks Shmi in the eyes, and says; “Well, this is certainly going to be interesting.”

~*~

There was, predictably, a pause of silence in the Council Chamber.

“Master _Koon_.”

Mace can’t believe this. He glances at Naasade, who looks pleasantly delighted to have escaped lecture by having his transgressions usurped.

Yes, he knowingly and unabashedly dropped out of contact with the Temple mid-mission. Yes, he took six Jedi to a planet notoriously opposed to Jedi as a whole. Yes, he allowed dark side practitioners to perform unsanctioned psychic treatment of Padawan Vos. Yes, he allowed Padawan Vos and Padawan Kenobi to train under Witches in dubious techniques. Yes, he had taken in six Force Sensitive dathomiri males without sanction. Yes, he had even offered to send Jedi back to Dathomir in a highly contestable ‘cultural learning exchange’.

But Master Plo Koon is the one who had thought it suitable, somehow, in the midst of this, to take _five_ of the six as padawans. ( _Only_ five as the sixth had been snapped up by a Healer, and no one sane was going to challenge Vokara Che)

In _addition_ to Initiate Leska, whom Koon had already petitioned for.

“You cannot take on _six_ Padawan Learners.” Master Mundi remarks incredulously.

“On the contrary, Master Mundi.” Master Koon replies calmly. “The Skywalker Initiative allows any master who has already raised a padawan to knighthood the option of taking on more than one student at a time. It does not specify a cap on the number of said students. And I have successfully raised more than one padawan to knighthood already.”

Mace swears he would feel calmer about this is Naasade would stop _smirking_.

“Perhaps,” Plo adds, “I would feel less obligated to such responsibility if more masters took up theirs.”

“Duly noted.” Mace replies dryly, rubbing his temples. Master Narec, freshly out of a bacta tank, looked utterly out of his depth as the council bickered.

At the very least, Naasade’s mission had been successful in recovering the lost Jedi Master.

But the less Mace hears about the pirates the better.


	2. Chapter 2

“ – is the closest Dining Hall to your quarters.” Kenobi says, leading Asajj through the corridors.

 _Map_. She thinks. _I need a map. And a tracking device_. How was she supposed to keep tabs on her master? The Temple was colossal, and there were so many people, all of them blaring and bright in her senses, hard to differentiate one from the other.

Asajj itches at her sleeve. The dark tunics were new out of a textile printer, given to her along with a standard toiletries kit and her housing assignment, while her master was stuck in a bacta tank in the Halls of Healing. They feel strange. Doors move without having to be touched, her refresher may as well be a puzzle box, the walls hummed slightly, the lights didn’t flicker…

She’d barely slept. The quarters felt barren, and everything else was just _strange_ , and her master hadn’t been there to explain it to her. The Healers had been very concerned for his health, and kept him the remainder of the night and part of the morning, and _their_ concern had made _Asajj_ concerned…

“Hey. Are you alright?” He asks, and Asajj scowls at him.

“I’m fine.” She mutters.

He lifts a brow, and glances down at the tracks she’s scratching on her arms.

“I’m itchy.”

“You can get different tunics if you like. Or take the sleeves off those ones.” He says. “I can show you to the Quartermaster’s later. You can also pick up anything else you need for your quarters. I figure all you ended up with last night where the bare basics, right?”

“I can manage.” Asajj says defensively. She and Master Ky had never needed much. They’d made it just fine.

“You don’t have to.” Kenobi says, and leaves it at that. He’d tried to arrange to introduce her to his friends, but apparently most of them were out of Temple.

He walks her along the edge of the room to a sort of…communal banquet, and explains how the process worked, where to get cutlery, what to do with her dishes when she had finished eating, what times meals were served in the Dining Halls.

People stare, and Asajj tenses up, but it quickly becomes apparent that they’re staring at him more than at her. She wonders why. They whisper too. Some of them do point her out, and Asajj can sense their curiosity.

There are so many of them.

And so many _races_. Asajj has to stop herself from staring too, trying to guess what species she can recognize from Master Ky’s descriptions.

Kenobi weaves through tables, clearly intent on somewhere or someone specific, and comes up by a green skinned young woman with diamond pattern tattoos on her chin and _very_ blue eyes. “Luminara, may we join you? This is Padawan Asajj Ventress. Padawan Ventress, Padawan Luminara Unduli.”

Dark lips part, and then press back together, blue eyes widening a little as she glances between the two of them and nods gently. Kenobi offers a puzzled frown, but sets down his tray. Padawan Unduli sets aside her utensils and makes gestures with her hands.

“Oh.” Kenobi states, a smile tugging at his lips. “She apologizes, Padawan Ventress, but she is undergoing a trial of silence. It’s a Mirialan cultural practice for her discipline.”

“What?”

“She can’t talk right now.” He reiterates.

“Like, at all?” Asajj looks at the older teen, who nods apologetically.

“Which means it’s a terrible idea to try and make her laugh, right, Lumi?” Another teenager appears, with thick dark hair and tan skin and a mischievous smile, squeezing onto the bench beside her friend. “I’m Padawan Sar Labooda. Well met.” She nods.

“You’re…Knight Billaba’s sister, right?” Kenobi inquires. “Well met.” He adds belatedly, and Asajj repeats the refrain, assuming it’s some kind of custom. She having to make a lot of assumptions, and to be honest, it’s slightly overwhelming.

“The one and only.” Labooda grins.

“I heard you spent three years on-“

“Don’t even say it.” She cuts him off. “Longest, most infuriating diplomatic mission in existence and I never want to hear about it again.”

“Er…okay.”

Padawan Labooda is very engaging, and quick to tell stories, about herself and others, and Asajj spends half the meal looking between Labooda and Kenobi as they contradict each other on translating for Padawan Unduli, who cannot speak in her own defense when some of the tales turn embarrassing.

It’s fun, but also a bit exhausting, and Asajj is glad when the older padawans break up the conversation to attend to their responsibilities elsewhere.

Obi-Wan shows her how to recycle her tray and cutlery, insisting he has to show her where the Room of a Thousand Fountains is next and he turns and smacks right into someone else. Asajj winces. Nobody ends up on the floor, but the same can’t be said of the tea set the other person was returning.

“I’m terribly sorry-“ Kenobi starts.

“Are you karking-“

They both stop, staring in aghast shock at each other, and Asajj eyes the other boy. He’s Kenobi’s age, for sure, a little shorter and stockier, with shoulder length white hair, no braid, and pastel blue eyes.

He turns sickly pale, and Kenobi flushes red, both of them tensing sharply. The other boy recovers first.

“Padawan Kenobi.” He states, forcing his expression placid.

Kenobi takes in a sharp breath. “Disciple Chun.” He returns, just barely polite. “Excuse me.” He nods tightly, turns just enough to get around the other teen, and marches away.

He only stops to wait for her once he’s at the entrance to the hall, and his expression is…shut down. Asajj has so many questions, but she doesn’t ask.

~*~

“Healer Kala?” A soft knock outside her office, and she won’t claim to not be relieved for the excuse to take her eyes off of datapads.

“Do come in.” She invites, ears flicking at a fast-ticking, strong heartbeat, nose catching the lightest scent of _male-adolescent-stress_ , the Force enunciating those details with a conflict of worry and anger balanced out by strict control.

She only as the two patients – well, one, now, it appears, if she’s reading these reports correctly. She could keep working with Quinlan Vos – he needs someone to help him work with expelling his connection to the Dark Side, but as it stands, her own history with his case, and what _he_ no longer knows about it, would be more hinderance than a help – so she is a little surprised to have someone knocking on her office, but it happens from time to time, and she still has colleagues who seek her advice.

But the young man who steps inside is not a colleague. The black and white tunics, the deep green vambraces and armored boots give him away immediately as Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, whom she has not ever actually met in person before, largely because some separation between herself and her patients lives was crucial to allowing them to feel as if their sessions with her were more secure, making them feel more at ease in letting their guard down. So she has never met many of the important people in Master Naasade’s life.

Master Healer Ylar Kala would gladly and gratefully have rather kept it that way.

“I’m Padawan Kenobi. I was hoping I could talk to you about my master. Ben Naasade?”

The black and white tunics, the deep green vambraces and armored boots give him away immediately as Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi. His face gives him away as so much more than that.

Oh.

 _Oh_ _no_.

 _I did not want to know that_ , she thinks, with a sinking feeling, staring at the boy.

“Would that be alright?”

He shuffles, uncertain in the face of her silence.

“It’s just…our last mission…some things happened, and…some things came up… and… I was wondering if it may be possible to work together on….helping him. I’m not sure – I know he comes to sessions, and I know he has the holocron, but I’m not…I’m not sure it’s enough.” He says earnestly, blue-green-grey eyes bleeding compassion and conviction. “I was hoping there might be more we could do. That _I_ could do.”

Years of training and strict discipline and still, still it is so difficult to separate herself from her own reactions, to observe the moment objectively _\- objectively? How can I be objective –_

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss Master Naasade’s treatment without due consideration and approval from the Council of Reconciliation.” She manages to say calmly, wishing the padawan had never come to see her at all.

Naasade’s past identity was the one thing, _the one thing_ , she had sworn she _did not_ want to know.

It was one thing to talk about the future; a tragic, _horrifying_ future. She could apply herself to that, and to treating the man who had lived through it, at great cost to himself. At too much cost, she sometimes fears.

But it was another to see it the reality of it standing right in front of her, not so far away at all.

His face falls. “Oh.” He says.

She looks at him, really looks at him.

 _Force help us_ , she prays. _I’m so sorry_.

~*~

Kelp seed tea was not to Ben’s preference, but as he was a guest in Master Yaddles quarters, he was hardly going to complain.

“Working directly with my order, you have avoided, Master Naasade.” She comments, settled meditatively into an egg shaped chair, her quarters warm and humid, her walls lined with delicate branching flowers in glass flutes, the floor polished to a high shine, much brighter than Yoda’s tended to be. In Yoda’s quarters, there was a great sense of richness, of being deeply rooted. Yaddle’s were almost the opposite, the Force light and airy and clear. Not empty, but cleansing, invigorating, like that first fresh breeze after travelling shipboard for a month.

“I was hoping your Shadows could provide independent confirmation without the influence of my own bias of the threats we face.” Ben remarks, knowing she has likely long already considered that fact, else she would have insisted. “It would certainly lend me some credibility. I know that there is still some doubt among the Council as to the…scope of my claims.”

It doesn’t surprise him. They do not want the Sith to return, and it would be…easier, to believe that though many of the problems he revealed where real, it was simply… ill fortune and poor foresight, as opposed to the malice and work of their ancient enemies. The Jedi were not inherently less fallable than any other being in the galaxy, after all.

“But they’re not making progress, are they?” He inquires. “They haven’t found anything that could be presented as proof.”

And he _needed_ proof, damn it. To act against the Sith without it would look – already had begun to look (with a few well-placed doubts and rumors, he presumes) - as though the Jedi acted against the _Senate_ ….

He’s seen the galaxy turn on the Jedi once already. Even at the very end, the Senate believed the Sith were little more than a Jedi’s superstition. Perhaps even an _excuse_.

As if they had wanted any part of that war to begin with. As if _Jedi_ craved _power_.

“Ongoing, is their efforts.” Yaddle replies. “More fruitful, have yours been?”

“Perhaps.” Ben nods, reaching into his robe. “Moher Talzin imparted unto me something I hope will prove most useful.” He draws out the talisman from a pocket, having learned the hard way that wearing it about his neck when he was not actively looking for Maul had its consequences. He’d get flashes, confusing his senses, drawing him away from his current course and towards the other. and the talisman invaded his dreams, revealing shadowy glimpses of the darksiders activities, intense with violent emotion more than any sense of rationale or reason, waking him in cold sweats with the fear that Maul could almost, _almost_ reach back through the talisman to him. It was best carried in a pocket, or else locked somewhere secure.

Yaddle’s eyes widen briefly and then narrow, and she carefully lifts the necklace with the Force, letting it turn lazily in the air.

“A hand in this crafting, you had?” She prompts.

“Yes.” Ben confirms, certain she already knew that. It was imbued with his intense emotional connection, after all.

“The work of a Jedi, this is not.” Yaddle says, her voice free of judgement. “Through pain, through anger, was this made.” She lowers it to rest on her table.

“It was necessary.” Ben replies, tilting his teacup in his hands. “That talisman can lead us to the Sith Apprentice.”

“Perhaps.” Yaddle looks him over. “Learn such skills, study such practices, my Shadows, you volunteered for?” One ear tilts, a scolding inquiry.

“The Sith practice Magicks we haven’t known in a millenia.” Ben says. “The Nightsisters can teach us how such magicks work, how to identify them, hopefully how to counter them. We have allowed ourselves to forget, Master Yaddle. We know longer _know_ our enemy.”

“Know our enemy, you do.” Yaddle murmurs.

“I am one man.” Ben smiles ruefully. “One Jedi. And I… I was not strong enough, Master Yaddle, when last I faced them. I still do not feel strong enough to face them.”

“Alone, you are not.” Yaddle tells him kindly, her wrinkled brow furrowed thoughtfully, appraisingly. “But enough, you do not believe we are.”

“No.”

“Then train, we must. Train, _you_ must. Grow stronger, we will. Send Shadows to Dathomir, we shall.”

Ben nods, head lower in respect, and they drink their tea.

“There is…” Ben frowns. “One other thing Mother Talzin passed into my possession.” He says, and draws from a pocket the book, which he has carried about with him since it was passed into his hand, reluctant to leave it anywhere. The cover was ornately detailed, but images overlapped images, making them dizzyingly unclear, some of them stitched into the binding, and others carved onto the hardened surface. At the right glance, some seemed similar to the patterns of tattoos the Nightsisters and Nightbrothers used, but the more he tried to focus on any one section, the more the whole of it escaped him. The pages were thick, gilded silk, painted characters beautifully applied, but flowing together, and when he tried to read them they seemed to run and swim. The edges clung to his fingers when he carefully leafed through the tome, and sometimes he swore they whispered, but he could get nothing from it, not with his eyes and not through the Force, which teased about the book, but revealed nothing.

“Old, this is.” Yaddle remarks, but does not reach for it, frowning.

“At least six hundred years, according to the Nightsisters.” Ben nods. It was remarkably well preserved for its age, the cover worn, but the silk seemingly untouched by time.

“Study it, perhaps the archivists could. But to your hand, this was given.” Yaddle remarks, peering at the book. “In your hands, I believe, it must remain. Sense this, I do. In time, perhaps, reveal its secrets, it shall. Guard it, you will.”

Ben nods, though he is no more comfortably with the notion coming from Yaddle’s lips than from Mother Talzin’s, though he is relieved that she too can sense that there is more to the book than it appears. There is caution, in her gaze.

She is taking a risk. He is taking a risk.

But these are such times as risk must be taken.


	3. Chapter 3

Quinlan giggles.

Tholme drags his attention up at the bright, effervescent sound, still mired in his own uncertainty and shock, to see the kiffar padawan clutching the datapad with Shmi’s missive on it and grinning delightedly.

Quinlan bounces a little, turning bright brown eyes on his master, his happiness a tangible, heady thing that unspools in the Force and bathes the room with the emotion. It rolls over him, eddying around his own emotions, and Tholme finds himself relaxing, the blank numbness of panic receeding. “Does this make me an uncle or an older brother?” Quinlan inquires, dancing over to the sofa and tossing himself down against the back of it – and his master, all teasing and joy that Tholme is damned pleased to see. “How does this work? I can’t believe you’re having a kid!”

Tholme chuffs, the sound full of nerves. “Neither can I.”

Quinlan cackles. “ _Really_? Because uh…I’m pretty sure there are certain, you know, _activities_ responsible, of which I would think you-“

“ _Quinlan_.” Tholme barks a warning, snatching the datapad from the young man and smacking him in the arm with it. His padawan just snickers harder, and Tholme shakes his head in defeat.

 _Good galaxies beyond_ , He thinks, letting the idea actually conceptualize into something real. _A baby_.

He has no idea what to do.

But he should probably start by having a conversation with Shmi.

Once he’s wrapped his head around this.

A baby.

A _baby_.

 _His_ baby.

He eyes Quinlan, who is the closest thing he’s ever had to his own child, and folds a hand over the lower half of his face. _Oh dear_.

~*~

Quartermaster Thee Thaa Yrrsim, an unusually skinny besalisk with a rather nasal voice, flaps all four hands at Plo in exasperation. “The last quarter has seen the highest lodging demand in this Temple since I took over this job, Master Koon, and then you present me with _this_.”

 _This_ , rather, being Koon’s six padawans.

Well, only five of the six where present. Plo had yet to introduce the Nightbrothers to Leska. He’d discussed the matter with the ten-year old girl early this morning, and she had understood his reasoning in adopting new lodgings and letting the Nightbrothers make themselves comfortable _before_ she arrived, given their cultural view of women.

“ _I’m not a woman, Master Plo_.” She’d replied with a quick frown. “ _I’m a kid_.” And then she’d shrugged. “ _But okay_.”

“A disused dormitory would do.” Plo suggests, not _trying_ to be difficult. He’s certain that even with the increased population from the influx of Disciples from the Corps (and more than a few strays more than one Jedi Master has simply brought home) there were likely still many of those.

“No, no.” The Quartermaster hacks low in his throat, a purely reptilian affection. “I’m not shy on the uptake, here. I’ve been opening up sealed living levels and setting the cleaning droids on them. They’re a bit farther down than anyone used to these days, so natural light isn’t ideal, but they’ve got much more space, and I’ve got architects and artists aplenty around here who’ve taken to the project of making them livable.”

Plo is pleased to hear it, as he tilts his head to watch Ravage and Feral climb up on a shelf, the youngest boys trying to get a better look at something.

“It’s the atmospherics you need that’s the real kicker. You’ll have to give us at least a few more hours, Master Koon.”

“Thank you, Quartermaster.” Plo nods, and the besalisk flaps a hand again, already turning away to call in some support.

Plo turns and observes his new charges for a moment. They’d all been supplied with the bare basic last night, and in less than half a day, he is reconsidering their needs and personalities drastically. Neither Howl nor Talon, the eldest, had touched the tunic’s they’d been given. Savage, Ravage, and Feral had, But Savage had removed the sleeves off the tunic and forgone the shirt entirely, Ravage had his shirt tucked into the tough pants and fur belt from his homeworld, and Feral was wearing more layers than Plo thought was strictly healthy, but perhaps the underweight boy really was that cold. The Healers had been most concerned about his development and nutritional intake.

“Chief?” Howl asks, standing by with burly arms crossed, startling green eyes reflexively checking on each brother before turning to Plo. He’s done that often, the Kel Dor can see, take a headcount before turning his attention from one thing to another. It’s not an uncommon trait from smaller communities, that attentiveness, where children were raised by the community, rather than any one or three people. If they were under your eye, you had to make sure they were safe.

The title is also something Plo is adjusting to. Feral was as quick to explain things as he was to ask questions, and it appeared that Chief among Brothers was the title held by the one who’s job is was to watch out for everyone else in their community. Not necessarily the strongest, but the one most like to keep everyone else alive, be it through skill or wisdom.

“We appear to have some time on our hands.” Plo explains. “Which is most fortunate, as it gives us opportunity to better outfit you. There are also some other supplies to collect – bedding and the like.”

Howl frowns. “We don’t need much, Chief. You already got us nice shirts, and these clothes still service.” He gestures to himself.

Plo pauses. Had that been why Howl and Talon set them aside? Because it was higher quality than they were used to, and deemed precious?

 _Limited resource living_. He reminds himself. _Even by Jedi standards_.

“Allow me to better explain the textile recycling system.” Plo offers. “Clothes need not only be serviceable, Howl, but also, in our opinion, comfortable. And while your clothes are serviceable, they may not be ideal to the training you shall undergo.” He says gently, the heavier materials stiff and unbreathable, the thinner ones almost threadbare. Jedi training would chafe and stress them in turns, and cause no small amount of discomfort.

Talon lopes over, the younger adult having caught only part of the conversation. “We’re getting new clothes again?” He inquires, the swirling tattoos around his red eyes and over his maroon skin giving him the look of a devilish whirlwind. “Who makes all this stuff? It must take an age.”

“In fact, it does not.” Plo replies. “Come, I will show you.”

Howl still does not look convinced, but the dark-skinned zabrak claps his hands once, and Savage scoops the boys off the shelving and trots over, throwing Ravage over one shoulder and hooking Feral under one arm. Feral grins, but Ravage kicks petulantly, the orange-skinned tweenling looking disgruntled.

~*~

Ben has only just returned to his quarters when Obi-Wan storms in behind him, all tension and frustration. Ben catches him by the shoulder before he can stomp into his room, wondering bewilderingly what could possibly have happened. They haven’t even been home a full day.

“Padawan?” Ben inquires.

Obi-Wan grits his teeth. “Bruck Chun is back in temple.” He states flatly.

Ben blinks, and Obi-Wan glances up at his face, blue-green-grey eyes full of upset, before he heaves a big sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “You wouldn’t – he’s…. it was all before you came to the Temple.” Obi-Wan tries to explain. “We were – rivals, I guess, and he was awful to me. He was better than me at – at classes, and in lightsaber training, and he just – he always had to _prove_ it. That I wasn’t good enough.” The echoes of humiliation stir in the Force, and Obi-Wan struggles to dispel them. He _knows_ that’s not true, but…He’s still only a teenager, and convincing himself of that is no easy task.

Bruck Chun is a name Ben hasn’t heard in – in more than twenty years. Ben had nearly forgotten him, as awful as that was, given what happened to him.

What hasn’t happened to him. He’d died when Ben was thirteen. He’d left the Temple disillusioned, dissatisfied, and angry, an anger spurred on by the fact that Qui-Gon Jinn, whom both he and Obi-Wan had been desperate to impress, had chosen Bruck’s rival after all, and Bruck was then sent away.

But not to the Service Corps. Bruck’s family had taken him back, and he’d returned to Telos. Where he’d been introduced to Xanatos Du Crion, who’d fed his anger and his bitterness and his darkness, and used him to attack the Temple, to get back at Qui-Gon Jinn for interfering in his affairs, and Bruck had died in the act. Ben had not been able to save him. He should not have been _responsible_ , at that age, for saving him, but still he’d…he’d tried.

But Obi-Wan had not been sent to Bandomeer. Qui-Gon Jinn had not run headlong into Du Crion’s operation there. Bruck Chun had still been sent home, but not because he was passed over for his rival. Events had changed, and Ben hopes, dearly, that people had changed with them.

He’s just…surprised. Bruck Chun was a life accidentally saved, and Ben had not expected him.

“You’re angry that he’s here.” _Focus, Ben_.

“I…” Obi-Wan sighs, the sound pure frustration. “I guess I am. I thought I was finally rid of him. And I _know_ that’s not a very Jedi thing to think or feel.” He groans.

“You do know what I’m going to say next?” Ben suggests.

“’What do I want to do with that anger.’” Obi-Wan grouses.

Ben lifts a brow.

“I know.” Obi-Wan replies, shoulders slumping, fists clenching and unclenching. “I just- I _don’t_ know. I’m just _angry_.”

Ben hums in sympathy. “At Bruck for being here? At the Jedi for taking him back? At yourself for being so effected?”

“ _Yes_.” Obi-Wan growls.

“Hm.” Ben thinks the problem over, in its many facets. Obi-Wan’s anger is its own issue, but he’s not taking Bruck’s presence lightly either. There is still the chance that his arrival now is not as innocent as it may appear. He helped Xanatos do great harm in another life. The possibility of similar acts still exists in this one. “Would you like to meditate or spar?”

“Spar first?” Obi-Wan counters conscientiously. “Then meditaton.”

Ben nods. “Excellent. After we mediate, I’d like you to invite Disciple Chun over for supper, or evening tea.” He amends, considering the time, and how much those activities might take.

“ _What_?” Obi-Wan demands sharply.

“Would you rather put it off till tomorrow?”

“Master, I’d rather put it off for _forever_.” Obi-Wan growls, glaring at him.

Ben crosses his arms.

Obi-Wan sucks in a sharp breath, posture straightening and stiffening, and nods tightly, jaw grinding. He turns on heel and strides into his room to change.

Ben sighs, stroking his beard. _This isn’t going to be pleasant, is it_? He wonders ruefully.


	4. Chapter 4

Obi-Wan would feel guilty about the mark that took a strip out of his master’s brow if his master hadn’t made a point of lining up his point strikes in a neat little row on Obi-Wan’s arm.

As it was, the only apologies either of them made where to Master Drallig, for doing a very good impression of attempting to kill each other with their overpowered lightsabers in his training salle. It probably wouldn’t have been so bad, had it not so delighted the Battlemaster’s padawan, who was ever eager to imitate the Mandalorian pair.

Even at their lowest setting, their lightsabers were above the standard set for sparring, and the sears stood out vividly on their fair skin.

Obi-Wan dabs salve onto the neat row of four marks on his arm irritably, while his master carefully teases out one lock of hair to disguise the missing part of his brow.

Their spar had gone late, and they’d eaten dinner before meditating for the rest of the evening. Obi-Wan still wasn’t centered in regards to his feelings about his childhood bully, but meditation and the sleep of the exhausted had calmed him down.

And as much as he wants to hope his master will conveniently forget about that invitation, Obi-Wan feels like avoiding it is too much like hiding, and he isn’t going to _hide_ from Bruck Chun. He’s better than that.

“I can invite him to lunch?” Obi-Wan suggests, trying not to sound entirely petulant about it.

His master looks up, sighing over his appearance and reaching for the jar of salve that Obi-Wan pushes towards him. The padawan is deeply considering going in sleeveless tunics today. The marks itch fiercely, and he’d rather not have them chafing all day. He and his master have both taken to wearing just their vambraces and greave-boots while in temple, which the masters have stopped grumbling about, so he doesn’t have to worry about the upper vambraces or the pauldrons. Obi-Wan glances at the vambraces sitting on the counter beside him, the silver trimmed deep green of his right vambrace with an orange mythosaur now wrapping around it. Essja has a new compression glove for him to try wearing under his armor, and Obi-Wan reminds himself to go pick it up this morning.

“You’re helping Shmi this morning?” His master inquires.

“Yes.” Obi-Wan nods. He couldn’t keep up with the Skywalker on physics or mechanics, but Shmi needed a lot more remedial help in subjects such as history and politics, and those Obi-Wan could assist her with, particularly given his own recent gamut with the Senior Padawan courses.

“You’ll have to find out which lunch cycle Disciple Chun is available for, and I’ll put something together.” His master nods.

Obi-Wan grits his teeth a little, but nods. He wants to demand why he has to invite someone who has delighted in humiliating him into his living quarters, but he can hazard a guess that it has to do directly with how furiously bitter he is about it. He doesn’t need his master to say it to his face that his current behavior is unbecoming of a Jedi. Jedi don’t hold grudges, after all. Jedi don’t give in to anger.

Anger leads to hatred.

Hatred leads to suffering.

 _But it’s not fair_ , he thinks. Bruck was the one who’d made his life miserable.

“Obi-Wan…” His master starts, watching him, and then stops, sighing. “I sense a lot more sparring in our future.” He mutters.

“I shouldn’t spar when I’m angry.” Obi-Wan mutters back. He’d been reckless yesterday, throwing himself at his master’s defenses with a viciousness that had surprised even himself.

“You shouldn’t take your anger out on your sparring partner.” His master corrects, and Obi-Wan frowns, present wisdom clashing with creche teachings. “But you cannot expect to never enter battle with anger in your heart. I think… there have been very few battles in my life, padawan, that I did not enter angry at the world, at my enemy, or at my circumstances. But I control my anger, my actions. It does not control me – and it will, if I let it. It has, in the past, and brought me far too close to the Dark Side. Even recently.” He adds, and Obi-Wan swallows. “But let me be clear, because there is a part of this lesson I fear I once failed to teach, that the Temple, I fear, fails to teach well; I am not telling you to not _be_ angry.”

“I’ll… keep that in mind, master.” Obi-Wan replies, conflicted over the cross-teachings.

“That’s all I ask.” Master Ben nods primly.

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes.

His master most certainly asks a hell of a lot more than that.

~*~

Shmi yelps, as Quinlan scoops her off the ground and spins her around, catching her in the gardens before breakfast.

“Quinlan.” His master sighs, crossing his arms in disapproval.

Quinlan ignores him, his grin stretching as he continues to carry Shmi, one arm around her back, the other under her knees. “I’m so happy for you.” The kiffar beams.

“I can feel that.” Shmi smiles back at him, only a little exasperated, his outpouring joy almost overwhelming in the Force, intense and heady. “Thank you. Put me on my feet, please.” She adds.

“I don’t know.” Quinlan shrugs, strong shoulders apparently unbothered by her weight. “I could just carry you for the next however many months.”

“I am not nor will I be infirm.” Shmi replies. “Now, _down_.” She says, pinching the underside of his arm.

“Ow!” He releases her, and Shmi lands on her feet again. She turns to Tholme with a sort of patient, forgiving look in her eyes that relieves him greatly.

“Shmi.”

“Tholme.”

Quinlan sighs with exaggerated grievance. “I’ll just go… read up on human maternity cycles, I guess.” He mutters, moving to make himself scarce. “Master…” He pauses, eyes narrowing, and gestures between the two adults with vague pointedness. His lips thin our and he sighs more seriously. “She probably already knows, so don’t repeat the whole thing that happened with Master Saa, alright?”

Tholme stiffens and offers his padawan a warning look, and Quinlan just tosses a wave and saunters off.

“I swear, I’m going to kick him out.” Tholme mutters. Shmi lifts a disbelieving brow and gently takes his arm, taking a turn deeper into the Room of a Thousand Fountains. “He’s too involved in my personal affairs.”

“One’s family usually is.” Shmi replies. “And if you believe that he is the one too entrenched, you are going be proven sorely mistaken when you knight him.”

Tholme sighs. “I know.” Quinlan was no mere student Tholme could simply send off into the galaxy, proud to have brought another fine Jedi into the ranks. He’d never be one of those Masters content to let his former padawan become a colleague, and then a once-familiar stranger, fondly reminiscent of each other once or twice a year, holding on to a quiet pride for a person he is less and less responsible for.

But he didn’t want to be one of those masters who frequently forgot that they had, in fact, _knighted_ their padawan either, constantly trying to step back into a role his student had long outgrown.

Tholme sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, and looks down at Shmi’s profile, at her delicate chin and snub nose and sharp gaze framed by thick lashes. Her cheeks still have the fine, uneven marks of old scars, but her hair is thick and rich, and there is a flush of health to her cheeks that makes her radiant. She turns her gaze up at him, and there is that patient, forgiving, _knowing_ look again.

Tholme is happy about the baby. He is, a fierce, potent brightness flaring deep inside whenever he considers it. He delights in the promise of new life, in the vibrant hope it presents, even takes pride in the idea that this came from him and Shmi…

But he is not prepared to be a father, in a traditional sense. He is too much a Jedi to offer anyone anything more than what he has offered Quinlan.

“We knew we were taking a chance.” Tholme says quietly. Shmi snorts softly out her nose.

“Yes.” Shmi replies, laying a hand over her stomach and releasing a curl of incandescent joy into the Force. “And we both knew neither of us asked for any promises.” She adds, absolving him without his having to outright _ask_.

“I assume you intend to raise them as you’ve raised Anakin?” Tholme inquires, straining for politeness out of awkwardness, and genuinely curious besides. The situation, all around, was beyond his experience. “Not giving them up to the creche?”

Shmi hums thoughtfully. “I don’t know.” She answers honestly. “Anakin living with me is almost a technicality. I can take him where and when I please, and he may live in my quarters, but he spends his days with the initiates anyways. He is my child, but the Temple is his home. And as for this one… I’ll be a Jedi Knight as this one grows up. My assignments will be longer and more difficult. I suppose it will be the subject of much debate for the Council of Reassignment, once they’re informed.” She mutters, lips thinning at that future predicament. “The problem would have to have been solved sooner or later, and I imagine there are many families in a state of uncertainty right now over this very subject, with the absorption of the Service Corps.”

Tholme slides his hand into hers and rubs his thumb over her knuckles. She smiles, one of those shy Skywalker smiles, ducking her face a little. “I’m not sure there will be any one solution.” He remarks. “That would be a nightmare to legislate. Perhaps your situation as it is is the better way – a fluid relationship between parentage and the creche.”

“Perhaps.” Shmi replies. “But what works for myself will not always work for others. But that is not for you and I to argue.” She squeezes his hand. “I’m not asking you for anything you aren’t willing to offer, Tholme. For our child or for myself.” She looks to him, brown gaze sharp and piercing and certain.

And he is quietly, intensely relieved at that. He nods, and then a thought occurs to him; "Congratulations, Shmi." He says softly. "I hadn't said it."

Her eyes shine, and she shakes her head. " _Jedi_." She remarks with exasperated fondness.

Tholme's brow furrows. "Beg pardon?"

She doesn't answer, her smile touched with teasing. "Tell me about your mission." She says instead. "Quinlan seems improved?"

Tholne still feels as if he's missed something, but Shmi Skywalker's polite stubbornness was a force unto itself, and would not be swayed. Sighing, Tholme gives in, and launches into the tale.


	5. Chapter 5

Obi-Wan attacks the lockout code on the door viciously, venting his frustration directly at his master through their bond, whom he can _tell_ is in their quarters.

Shmi had been absolutely serene when they started, and that had not lasted. She asked very intuitive and sometimes uncomfortable questions about the political history of the Order, and Obi-Wan knows she had found half the answers largely dissatisfactory. To be fair, he felt similarly.

The panel beeps negatively at him again, and Obi-Wan glowers at it, well prepared to start banging on the door. His master would do this _now_ , of all times.

“This _is_ the right address?” Disciple Chun inquires slowly, approaching from down the hall.

Obi-Wan sucks in a slow, deep breath, straightens, and turns to face the other teen with as much civility as he can muster. “Yes.” He replies simply, eyeing Chun with as much wary skepticism as Bruck was eyeing him with.

He’d been outright disbelieving when Obi-Wan tracked him down this morning, singling him out of a cluster of other recently returned Disciples still trying to get their bearings. It makes Obi-Wan slightly uncomfortable that they knew him on sight before he’d introduced himself, but he’d ignored that in favor of focusing on his manners when addressing his childhood rival.

“Are _you_ sure?” Chun replies, crossing his arms, pastel blue eyes flicking at the locked symbol on the door panel. Obi-Wan shoots him a short, dirty look, and then gestures to the names on the panel, very clearly displayed as Naasade/Kenobi.

Bruck scowls, crossing his arms. “If it says so.” He mutters.

Obi-Wan bites his tongue and turns back to the panel. Bruck snorts, but Obi-Wan is still watching him out of the corner of his eye, and Bruck may set his shoulders with all the posturing in the world, but his balance is off in the way he’s standing, his hands tense where they rest on his elbows. He’s nervous.

“My master likes to set me informal challenges.” Obi-Wan says, because standing in silence while Bruck stares at him is making _him_ nervous. “To improve my skills. This is just one of them.”

And so, Obi-Wan is convinced, is Bruck.

~*~

Quinlan pounces the moment he returns to their quarters, practically cornering his master in their kitchen. “Well?” He demands, chin tilting up expectantly, offering his master raised brows and narrowed eyes.

Tholme sighs at him.

“Tholme.” Quinlan rolls his eyes with the full enunciation of his body. “Tell me you didn’t backpedal so hard at the first sight of emotional complications that either she or we are going to have to get stationed on another planet because you were an utter _arse_.”

“I was – _not_.” Tholme snaps at the young man, who gives him a doubtful lip. “And this is not like what happened with Master Saa.” He adds pointedly. He and T’ra were on good, even fond terms now, but there had been a point…well – He’d left the Watch, and she’d taken it up. But Shmi and T’ra were very different people, and these were very different circumstances.

“So you actually spoke to her about your reservations, with actual words, and everything is clear between the two of you?” Quinlan snarks.

Thole growls at the young man, who doesn’t budge an ounce. “This is hardly your business.”

“Oh, no.” Quinlan sticks a pointed hand up between them. “There it is.” He remarks sharply, digging in. “You turn into a cold, impersonal bastard the second anyone tries to get too much out of you. This is absolutely my business. I care about you both a hell of a lot, you know. And this – this _matters_ to you. This is _important_. And if you kark it up, _I’m_ the one who has to deal with your misery. So maybe you can backpedal on your romantic relationships, but you’re _stuck_ _with me_ , Master. You’d follow me, right? You promised. Do you think I wouldn’t do the same?”

Brown eyes bore into him, stripping through any façade and barrier he’d ever had and digging in with brutal, irresistable insistence – and that was _all_ Quinlan, and always had been. That sharp intelligence, that insatiable curiosity, that ability to pick and prod and think and worm their way through problems and puzzles and people, that was what drove Tholme to take Quinlan as his padawan, because in that regard, they were terrifyingly alike.

Tholme grinds his teeth and crosses his arms, already knowing his pissed glower doesn’t affect the younger man in the least. “It’s…difficult.” He mutters, feeling himself cave – at the very least because he’s not getting out of the kitchen without satisfying Quinlan at least a little. “I don’t – want to be unkind to her. I just don’t know how to properly explain it.”

“Try it with me, Tholme.” Quinlan shrugs, his stance softening some, less aggressive. “Because to be honest, master, I don’t really understand the problem. You were happy to find out, and, well, you weren’t exactly taking _precautions_.”

Tholme does not want to be lectured on sexual practices by his padawan, thank you very much. His and Shmi’s relationship wasn’t particularly active in that regard, Tholme was past his prime, and human women were on average only fertile one week in four. The chances had been low, and Shmi’s relationship with her own motherhood was…spiritual beyond his understanding. She had declined contraception through the Healer’s because she had not wanted to deny herself the chance, she had explained, and Tholme had considered the low possibility and the abstract idea of a potential child mild enough that _he_ had not taken precaution either.

And here they were.

Tholme closes his eyes and leans back against the wall, sighing.

“I can make Afke, and we can sit down.” Quinlan offers.

Afke.

As if Tholme will refuse that.

He nods, and Quinlan, showing uncharacteristic gentleness, pulls him off the wall and ushers him out of the kitchen.

~*~

Ben is well aware that locking his padawan out will very likely come back to bite him, but he’d rather let the two boys in at the same time than let Obi-Wan spend his waiting period suffusing their quarters with stress and sour anticipation. This meal would likely be unpleasant enough without that saturating the air.

Obi-Wan sits stiffly in his seat, sipping his tea with enough precisely applied pressure in his fingers Ben’s surprised the cup doesn’t crack, and Disciple Chun takes glances at Obi-Wan’s marked up arm, at the vambraces he’d taken off, at the compression glove he’d kept on, at the plants, and the beaded cushions, and the mismatched, brightly colored dishes, while Ben sets down the meal tray and settles the dishes on the table for them to serve themselves.

Obi-Wan eyes the bowl of red noodles in amongst the rice and fish and vegetables and shoots his master a pointed look. Ben had been forbidden from serving such dishes to guests, but if he is going to cook a meal in his own home, he is damn well going to cook to please himself as well as his guests. He returns the pointed look, and his padawans ire simmers.

“Thank you for the invitation, Master Naasade.” Disciple Chun says politely, even sounding genuine. Ben looks the teen over, and nods affably. “Though I confess I was… surprised. Perhaps confused. I’m sure Obi-Wan would hardly have said anything nice about me.”

Politeness. Endearment. Apparently self-effacing charm carrying with it a subtle jab, and perhaps even a sincere shred of shame, in the small, tight pull at the edge of his mouth. His manners have been polished, at least, from what Ben can recall. But he’s not certain the boy’s character has really changed.

Obi-Wan shoots the other boy a sharp look, and Ben twitches a brow, which stings for the movement. The sear would be easily absolved with bacta, but Ben won’t cave until Obi-Wan does.

He can’t wait until Mace gets a look at him, preferably while the stubborn padawan was in company.

Then again, Obi-Wan walked about with those marks exposed all morning – Ben will be lucky if he doesn’t have someone knocking on his door decrying the teenager’s treatment again by evening.

“Did you miss him?” Ben inquires, peering at the white-haired teen with interest. “You use his given name as if you’re still quite familiar. Much can chance in three years, especially at your ages.” He comments.

Bruck blinks, taken aback, and so does Obi-Wan. Pastel blue eyes glance aside, but don’t make actual eye-contact with blue-green-grey eyes before looking back to Ben. “Life was certainly lonelier without him.” Bruck remarks.

That has a ring of truth to it, and Obi-Wan looks seriously offended. Ben clears his throat, but doesn’t follow it up with a mental prod to reign the red-headed teen in. He imagines if he pushes Obi-Wan right now, he’s going to get a nasty retort in the Force. Instead, Ben hands Obi-Wan the serving spoons, and the teen sets himself to the task with stiff discipline.

“I believe you returned to your family on Telos, did you not?” Ben inquires, topping off teacups.

“I did.” Bruck nods seriously, trying to put on his best face. “Yes.”

“But you were lonely?” Ben inquires.

“I have a little brother. He’s sweet.” Bruck replies, somewhat stiffly. “But my father is a very busy man. His work influences all of Telos.” He adds, tone hardening with the lesser side of pride. "It was much different from my upbringing in the Temple."

“I must admit, I’m surprised you returned to the Jedi.” Ben continues, casually refusing the serving spoons and gesturing for Obi-Wan to hand them to their guest instead.

“Things in the Temple are different. I’m not a businessman like my father.” Bruck remarks. “But I have my own power, and the Jedi can show me how to use it.”

That isn’t a turn of phrase Ben likes. He smiles affably regardless.

“Still, given that utter kark-up of a tournament, I wouldn’t be surprised if you held poor regards for the Order.” Ben says casually. “Yoda should never have encouraged the two of you to fight in such a display for the unwinnable interests of Master Jinn. Qui-Gon was never willingly going to choose either of you, and Yoda soured your chances with other master’s by thrusting you both in his direction.”

Bruck fumbles with the serving spoon, and both teens give him gobmacked looks. “What?”

They glance at each other warily, and then back at him in shock.

Ben lifts a brow. “What?”

“That’s not – that’s wasn’t-“ Bruck and Obi-Wan try talking over each other, stop, offering each other impatient looks, and both turn, still utterly off-put, back to Ben.

“What do you mean?” Bruck demands, eyes narrowed.

“Master Yoda had been trying to force Qui-Gon into accepting a new learner for years, doing nothing in his attempts but making him all the more irretractable from his determination _not_ to take on a new student. The failure with Xanatos Du Crion wounded him deeply, though I blame that incident more on the Council’s poor judgement than on Master Jinn’s.”

Ben watches the boy’s look very carefully. There are flickers of surprise, and greedy interest -and yes, he did react to Du Crion’s name. Ben is very, very wary of that.

“But he has one now, doesn’t he?” Bruck scowls. “She must be something special.” He adds, and Ben can see him scold himself for letting jealously creep out. Obi-Wan’s confusion at the wild turns of the conversation changes abruptly into fierce, protective anger, and Ben drops his heel on his padawan’s toes, quelling him from snapping waspishly.

“Master Jinn took on Padawan Jeisel largely out of debt to me.” Ben remarks firmly, and pastel eyes widen, realizing he may have erred. “Shame can often be a greater motivator than guilt.” He adds. “And unlike Master Yoda, I did not feel particularly sorry for him, so my efforts were not as…gentle. Du Crion’s Fall was an unfortunate cataclysm of terrible choices he should never have been forced to make. His decision to continue to embrace the Dark Side, however, is entirely upon himself.”

“I see.” Bruck swallows thinly, clearly uncertain. He twirls his fork in the red noodles on his plate. “Perhaps you could help me find a master as well, Master Naasade?” Bruck inquires politely. “I was always just as good as Obi-Wan.” _If not better_ , goes unsaid, but it’s implied in the aggressive edge to his tone.

“Perhaps,” Ben remarks thoughtfully, half an idea – probably a terrible one – taking root in his head. Bruck’s ego is easily played, but his mind is difficult to read, and Ben worries about what might lurk beneath the surface, though he dare no pry too obviously. He’d accidentally saved the teens life, but he’s worried that fate is more stubborn than history, and that perhaps he only delayed what happened to Bruck Chun. If Xanatos has gotten a hold of him… the Temple could be in danger. “But my standing with other Knights and Master’s is not at it’s best. My padawan, on the other hand-“

Obi-Wan head snaps up, ire turning into a sort of horror.

Ben closes his mouth and stares hard at his padawan, because honestly he ought to have more control. Though perhaps Ben is underestimating the severity of the situation from Obi-Wan’s perspective. Ben has had a long time to let the pains of his youth fade, and experienced far worse pains to make them seem trite in comparison. In the end, Bruck had treated him badly, but he was a youngling himself, and he hadn't deserved to die for it. But to Obi-Wan…to Obi-Wan Bruck was not a lost life recaptured, someone who could potentially be saved. To Obi-Wan, this was merely someone who had made quite an effort to cause him misery, and worse, to see that Obi-Wan failed.

To make matters worse, Bruck is equally as offended by the proposition, part apprehensive fear and part scorn.

 _Oh, excellent_.

Ben resigns himself to cold showers and locked doors.

“If the two of you are to be so dramatic,” Ben snipes dryly. “I have a lesson for you.”

 _Master_. Obi-Wan projects, already protesting.

“A fallen enemy may rise again.” Ben recites, feeling the both of them curdle in the Force as they recognize the start of one of _those_ lessons. “But the reconciled one is truly vanquished.”

He looks between them both with utter seriousness. “A Jedi _does not hold grudges_.”

He looks at Obi-Wan, simmering with righteous anger, the victim of injustice, and Bruck, holding back bitterness over wounded pride and the fear of rejection.

At a glance, perhaps it would seem only right to side with Obi-Wan, whose grievances were against Bruck, specifically, and not without cause, but in truth-

In truth, they were both just boys. They were _children_ , trying to reconcile themselves with their own suffering. Obi-Wan was the victim of a bully. Bruck was the victim of a less tangible abuse, a system which created a combination of competition and neglect that had fed his fears and enabled his poor behavior, making Obi-Wan the victim twice-over and abandoning Bruck to his issues instead of attempting to help him truly resolve them.

“You want us…to be friends?” Bruck says skeptically.

“No.” Ben replies.

Pausing, in the Force, from both of them. Well, a least he has their attention. Their dubious, unhappy attention.

Ben sighs.

“Do you want to know what it truly feels like to be a Jedi worthy of the title?” Ben asks them, not bothering to wait for their uncertain answers. “It feels like standing before the person you hate most in the world, and still finding it in yourself to be kind to them. It doesn’t feel good. It’s not often rewarding. It has nothing to do with serenity, or enlightenment. But it is _just_ , more perfectly just than almost anything you’ll ever do. Because the truth is is that your real enemy is inside you. And when you can do that, when you can face hatred with kindness, you’re beating it.” Not just within themselves, but within the Force as well, denying a little more darkness a place to flourish, encouraging a little more light. One miniscule increment at a time, tipping the balance of an unfathomable scale.

“You’re denying your Dark Side.” Disciple Chun says carefully.

“No.” Ben corrects, with a grimacing smile. “You are denying your weakness.” Hatred was an attachment worse than love. It was crippling and intense and compulsive. Some people used hatred to their advantage, like Shmi, they used the inescapable passion of it to drive them to deny every aspect of the persons or things they hated – for Shmi it was cruelty, depravity, slavery, greed, vice and carelessness. Shmi’s kindness was profound and encompassing; the odd, inexplicable exception wherein her inherent goodness was the byproduct of selfishness, of her ferocious desire to never be _depur_ , her voracious passion to see every reflection of them destroyed. Even within herself.

But for others… for others that hatred inspired less noble actions. It turned them angry, vicious, unkind. It felt strong, and those feeling it failed to realize that the strength of that hatred was not within themselves, but within the thing they hated. Hatred did not give them power, it took power over them.

Bruck Chun was no Shmi Skywalker.

“Giving in to hatred just means you couldn’t do any better than that.” Ben says sternly. “So,” he remarks. “If the best the two of you can do is give in to a hatred instigated by a _creche feud_ …” He trails off, and they both sulk petulantly.

He is, of course, doing nothing but feeding that very competition, but hopefully towards a more beneficial result.

“Don’t eat the red noodles.” Obi-Wan mutters begrudgingly. “My master isn’t supposed to serve them to unsuspecting guests. Especially if you aren’t used to spicy foods – it can make you sick.”

Bruck glances at his fork dubiously. “Thank you.” He says flatly, scraping the utensil off on the edge of his plate. They eye each other with wary, uncompromising looks, and then both glance to Ben, as if to guage for his approval. He _does not_ smirk.

The rest of the meal is aggressively polite, and Ben quietly debates in his head how much of his concerns about Bruck Chun’s possible connections to Xanatos Du Drion, and to the Dark Side, he dare reveal. He doesn’t come to any satisfactory decision, but in the meantime, he’s at least successfully ensured that he’ll be able to keep an eye on Disciple Chun.


	6. Chapter 6

Ben gives Obi-Wan fifteen minutes to stew and settle himself, the padawan having disappeared into his room the moment Ben showed Disciple Chun out the door. Ben clears the table, takes care of the dishes, and then approaches the door with apprehension.

It does not automatically open at his approach, and Ben knocks lightly before pressing the door key.

It does open, so his padawan had not, in fact, locked him out, which was promising.

Obi-Wan is sitting on the edge of his bed, leaned over with his elbows on his knees, turning something over and over in his hands.

Ben catches a flash of red, and realizes it’s the glass bird he gave his padawan for his sixteenth birthday.

Oh.

Ben hovers in the doorway.

“I don’t hate him that much, master.” Obi-Wan mumbles, voice low and conflicted. He looks up, blue-green-grey eyes stormy. “But I don’t want to forgive him.”

“You are under no obligation to.” Ben says, trying to be reassuring and moving to sit beside his padawan, drawing an arm over the teens hunched shoulders.

“But a Jedi should forgive, right?”

Ben takes a deep breath, squeezing Obi-Wan’s arm, feeling the tension coiled in his frame, the unease of reason battling emotion sloshing in the Force, mired with _anger-frustration-confusion_ and a sense of _desperation-to-prove-myself_.

“One of the most forgiving proverbs my master ever quoted at me, Obi-Wan, was this; A Jedi is not who we are, but what we strive to be.” Ben says kindly. “From the youngest Padawan to the eldest Master. Inside Temple Halls, it’s easy to believe we can simply shed our doubts and fears and impulses, that we can see past our biases and grievances, that we can ascend above the weight of a physical existence, and tend solely to higher understanding. But attempting to reach enlightenment does not exempt us from living in the real world, and in the real world, such things are not particularly practical, nor reasonable in their expectations.”

Obi-Wan looks at him doubtfully, fingers clutched around the glass bird. “That…I am fairly certain I asked a yes or no question, and you did _not_ give me an answer.” His padawan points out, exasperated.

Ben sighs. “The answer is is that the answer is not as simple as yes or no. Your anger, your forgiveness, those are about how you feel, and I am not telling you that you have to change how you feel.” Ben tells him earnestly. “But how you treat others – even those who have harmed you, or embarrassed you, or upset you – how you act, that – that is what will define you. To _be_ a Jedi is an endless journey towards something greater, but to _act_ as a Jedi – that we are capable of.”

“But if I just act like what he did wasn’t _wrong_ – he gets away with it. That’s not fair. I know I sound like I’m whining, but if how I act makes me a Jedi, how he acts reflects on me as well doesn’t it? Because if I just let him act that way-“

“ _Sushir_.” Ben murmurs, cutting him off. “ _Haalur, bal sushir bah ni_.”

_Listen. Breathe, and listen to me._

Obi-Wan takes a breath, looking to him, blue-green-grey eyes intense and stormy.

“First – you are not whining. Your feelings on the matter are entirely justified. Second - you are not responsible for his actions, Obi-Wan. No-“ Ben stops him. “You were a youngling, both of you were younglings, and you are both still only growing up. You are _not_ responsible. I am. A great many adults in this temple, it appears, have failed you both – first, in allowing you to be harmed, second, in allowing him to enact harm. So, as an adult aware of the situation, I am responsible for correcting our failings here. For seeing you heal and overcome what is clearly still a wound, and for seeing that he has a chance to change, to makes amends for the harm he has caused in the past and better himself in the future – if he has not already. It’s been three years. Neither of you are the same boys you were then.”

Obi-Wan looks downs, clearly having heard him, but still struggling with accepting what he has said. That’s alright – Ben doesn’t expect him to make peace with this in the span of a single afternoon. He imagines his padawan will struggle with this for quite some time. Everyone does – those who attempt the struggle of reconciliation at all, at least. Not everyone cared to be so self-aware, nor so self-conscientious.

“Do I really have to be nice to him?” Obi-Wan grumbles. “It just – makes me angrier.”

“I expect you to be _civil_ with him, but that does not mean you need to pretend to be friends, or pretend that your anger does not exist.” Ben says. “And if you can’t be civil, we’ll simply have to endeavor to keep the two of you apart. What I _can’t_ have, padawan mine, is you going after him in the salles like you went after me yesterday.”

Obi-Wan flushes, gaze darting up to his master’s singed brow. “You volunteered me to help him find a master.” He mutters, not apologizing. “That’s not exactly going to keep us apart.”

“That – “ Ben pauses. “ - was not my wisest moment. I apologize, and I won’t hold you to the obligation. I was attempting to get a sense of his character.”

“I had thought your choice of topic was … odd.” Obi-Wan says, the edges of his gaze pinching, sensing more to it than it first appeared.

Ben struggles with himself, for a moment, wanting to keep his secrets and his schemes and his not impartial influence to himself, to hold onto control as he watches this play out, but he needs his padawan’s trust. So he needs to trust his padawan.

“I am… concerned about Disciple Chun’s return to the Temple.” Ben confides.

Obi-Wan’s brow furrows, his fingers curling around the glass bird and his knuckles coming up so he can brace his chin upon them. “Why?”

“I’m going to say something you’re not going to like.”

“You’ve done a lot of that in the last day.” Obi-Wan retorts. Ben gives him a short look.

“Bruck Chun was an angry, scared child when he left this temple. He behaved pettily, even cruelly, but his position was not unlike yours, his feelings not unlike yours, at the time, only no master came to claim him at the last moment. We sent him away. The manner in which we sent him away – in which we used to send so many away, left them – left him – vulnerable.”

Obi-Wan frowns, squirming a little as he attempted to accept empathizing with his former bully. “But he didn’t even go to the Corps. He went back to his family. To people who cared for him.”

Ben tips his head, neither here nor there on the matter of Bruck’s family. “Family can be complicated. But it is not their influence which concerns me. Disciple Chun’s father, you see, is close acquaintances with Xanatos Du Crion, Head of Offworld Mining Corporation, First Citizen of Telos, and Master Qui-Gon’s former, fallen padawan. _His_ potential influence concerns me.”

“Didn’t we meet him-“

“Yes.”

“Why would the Council send Master Jinn on a mission involving his former padawan?” Obi-Wan protests. Ben’s expression twists.

“The Council has not made the wisest of decisions in regards to that partnership.” Ben mutters. “As such, Du Crion holds a powerful hatred of his former master, Obi-Wan, and of the Order. The nature of his Fall was…” Ben shakes his head. “Du Crion’s father was… not a good man, but regardless of his actions, Master Jinn killed Xanatos’s father, and Xanatos bore witness. So long as we kept out of his way, I believe he was content with his hatred, but if revenge may be easily obtained, say, through the actions of someone the Jedi would not suspect…”

“You think Bruck would help him hurt the Jedi?” Obi-Wan inquires, looking troubled, still naïve enough that it had not occurred to him that Chun might go so far.

“I don’t know.” Ben says clearly, because he does not want to give Obi-Wan a reason to think poorly of Bruck, but he does want his padawan to take cautious consideration. “But I know that a boy in Bruck’s position; angry, hurt, lonely – could be easily swayed by someone like Xanatos. Someone powerful, someone who seems understanding, who validates his anger, who may make him feel special.”

Obi-Wan frowns thoughtfully, and Ben draws his arm back from his padawan’s shoulder’s, stroking his beard in contemplation while his padawan works the problem over in his mind.

“So Bruck could be innocent.” Obi-Wan says slowly. “Or he could be dangerous.”

Ben chuffs. “He could be _both_ , Obi-Wan. His path is uncertain, but sometimes, sometimes, all one truly needs to turn away from darkness is a chance to do so. They need to be able to see that the choice exists. That it not only exists - but that it is within their reach.” Ben adds, knowing that some people chose darkness because they felt trapped, that it was all they could do. Not because they wanted it.

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and sighs, still tense and frustrated, but more introspective and thoughtful about it. “Have you told the Council of Reconciliation? Or the Order of Shadows?”

“That a boy who came back to the Temple might be part of a malicious plot by a former padawan the Temple hasn’t heard from in more than a decade because they just so happened to hail from the same planet?” Ben asks wryly. “Obi-Wan, even _I_ can’t be entirely convinced that I am not simply paranoid.”

Obi-Wan’s frown deepens, brow tightening. “Didn’t this used to be your job, though? Investigating darksiders and threats against the Jedi?”

Ben blanks for a moment before recalling that his padawan fully believes him to be a former Shadow.

“That doesn’t mean I’m not simply being paranoid.” Ben reiterates blandly, fingers reaching under his sleeve for the medical tag he was still required to wear.

Obi-Wan nods, conceding a little grumpily. “We _should_ tell them, though.” He prompts. “We can’t do everything ourselves. It’s alright to ask for help.” He looks at his master like he’s making a point, and Ben grimaces faintly.

“Yes.” Ben nods. “I get your point.”

Obi-Wan huffs and leans into his side, and Ben relaxes, reaching up to tug on the boy’s padawan braid.

Things weren’t yet quite so easy between them, but Ben was confident that they’d be alright. At least for today.


	7. Chapter 7

The roasted, fruity smell of _afke_ fills their rather utilitarian quarters, and Tholme stares pensively at a wall while Quinlan goes through the proper ritual motions of making the stewed beverage. Datapads and puzzleboxes from various cultures clutter the shelves around the sofa, and Tholme’s gaze catches on a holocron he needs to remember to return to the archives. In an amongst the intellectual detris are also a collection of small handmade monsters, courtesy of Initiate Secura, one small, clumsily made pot gifted to Tholme by little Ani Skywalker, and a glass bottle full of sand that Obi-Wan left behind. Objects, that like the people they represent, seemed to have crept into his life without him realizing how far they’d gotten.

He imagines if he reaches behind the cushion he’s sitting on, he’ll find at least one of Shmi’s hair combs. She had quite a collection of them now, all of them Shili craftsmanship.

Quinlan carries two cups of _afke_ out of the kitchen, the rims just caught by his fingertips, and Tholme bit back the scolding for the day when Quinlan does that and actually spills it. Until it actually happened, Quinlan would simply ignore the chastisement.

Tholme takes his cup with a murmured thanks, and his padawan settles himself on the other end of the sofa, pushing his back against the side and tossing his feet – and his long legs, across the length, one foot crooking down into the cushions, knee bent, the other prodding annoyingly at Tholme’s side.

He takes up a lot more room than the first time Tholme had brought him to his – soon to then be their – quarters, a scrawny youngling bouncing on the cushion, flopping back and finding himself just too short to spread his arms across the back like he’d wanted to do.

Quinlan takes a deep breath, pinning him with a hard look, a mature, serious look not often seen on his face. “So.” He says. “Drink that, and try to help me understand what the problem is.”

Tholme sighs, lifts his cup, and takes a sip, the over-rich, slightly bitter, ripe flavor immediately overwhelming his palette. Only experience keeps him from cringing at the taste-curdling experience that was the kiffar tonic.

Quinlan slurps his, which on Kiffu was considered proper and on Coruscant was not.

Tholme takes another sip, surrendering his disgust, the second taste just as assaulting as the first, and he can feel his body start to relax, in expectation of the medicinal properties taking effect more than any current effect of the hot drink. He breathes in the steam, which is actually far more pleasant than the beverage itself, and sighs.

“The problem is…Shmi – This child…” Tholme grinds down on his teeth, trying to make sense of his argument. “They aren’t - can’t be - the most important relationship in my life.” He says lowly. “I can’t promise them my devotion. I can’t even promise them my time. I belong to the Order, I am a Jedi, and my duty will always comes first.”

He breathes in through his nose, sharp, and out through his mouth, slow.

“And so will you.” He tells the young man, who watches him with patience and intensity.

The corner of Quinlan’s mouth twitches, some quirk of wryness and humbled embarrassment and gratitude.

“And Shmi already knows that.” Quinlan says, just as he had said it before. “That didn’t freak you out before.”

“I am not-“ Tholme bites down on the retort, and Quinlan lifts an egging, challenging brow. “I know, and yet...”

Quinlan’s lips twits, fingers drumming thoughtfully. He takes another sip of _afke_ , grimaces, and swallows it down. It’s like a compulsion neither of them can resist, finishing the cup.

“That she will not demand I take accountability does not mean I hold none, does it?” Tholme says aloud.

Quinlan shrugs. “I told you to talk to her. That’s really not a question I can answer, but has the possibility occurred to you that Shmi didn’t want a father for her child? I mean, spiritually? Physically I guess was kinda necessary, but… she _knows_ you’re a Jedi.”

That…hadn’t. Tholme frowns thoughtfully.

“Not that I think that if you wanted to be a father to this child, that she wouldn’t completely respect that, but… I don’t think the expectation is there, man.” Quinlan adds. “Personally, I’m thrilled. A tiny little Shmi-Tholme hybrid? This kid is gonna be amazing.”

Tholme gives the young man a short look. _Shmi-Tholme hybrid_. What was _wrong_ with that boy? That mental image is….That is not how children work.

Children are their own people.

And that… that was perhaps what Tholme feared.

Tholme fears fatherhood in that he fears being responsible for someone else’s _personhood_. For taking the chance of shaping someone else poorly. Jedi younglings are raised in clans, by crechemasters and teachers and the entire order, allowed to grow into themselves through the influences and interactions of many, and when they reach their time, they are _chosen_ by a master. Not assigned, not thrust upon them in happenstance. They are an individual and taken in by a master for their personal merits, with due consideration for two existing personalities. Babies are not like that. Babies are all fragile malleability, so easy skewed by one thing or another in unpredictable ways. Tholme can’t even promise to _like_ his own child. And he doesn’t want to offer a promise he can’t keep. Fatherhood, he fears, implies a great many promises he could not keep.

And what of Shmi’s motherhood, in relation to his fatherhood? Parents in nuclear families had an ultimate sort of authority over their children that did not exist in the Jedi Order. Master’s came close, but even padawans had rights unto themselves that a master could not overrule, and a master’s authority was subject to the various Council’s, to the crechemasters, even to their peers, in certain situations. Tholme neither wanted to be at odds with the Order over child-rearing, nor at odds with Shmi. Or, Force forbid, forced into a position of mediating between them, which he could not see ending well.

“I don’t want to walk away.” Tholme tells his padawan, the conflict raw within him. “But I fear that what I have to offer could not be enough.”

Quinlan pulls his feet back, crossing his legs and sitting up, leaning forward intently. He nods, cup cradled in his hands. “Then we just have to live with that.” Quinlan says. “And we’ll find a way.” He adds. “But someone actually has to communicate this to Shmi. We’re not going to make assumptions and dance around each other, alright? You two are a pair of the most pragmatic Jedi in the Order. You can figure this out.”

Tholme hums, sipping his _afke_.

“I’ll talk to her.” He promises.

Quinlan nods, tense shoulders relaxing. “That’s all I’m asking, master.”

~*~

Leska keeps playing with the chromatics on her false windows. Her new quarters – with Master Plo, and her brother padawans – were too low in the Temple levels to get direct natural light, so false windows had been installed. She could program them to any skyline she wanted, or to stained glass, which she liked, but she’d been messing around and found out that she could randomize the tint, which created a sort of blooming, abstract artwork across the pane, so she was eliminating colors she didn’t like and letting the window do the rest.

She’s not avoiding the living area, exactly – except that she is. She thinks she scares her new brother-padawans.

Which is funny, especially because Howl and Talon are so big and scary-looking, but it’s also kind of distressing. They tend to shrink in on themselves and get quiet when she’s around, and they avoid looking at her, and it makes her feel bad, because if they’re talking, they’ll stop, and if they’re playing, they’ll try and get out of her way, and if she talks to them, they answer directly, but also try and usher her towards Master Plo, like they aren’t _allowed_ to talk to her.

Which is ridiculous, but Master Plo says that girls were very protected on their homeworld, and that men weren’t supposed to interact with them, and that the world was ruled by women, and that was why.

Leska likes the idea of women ruling the world, but she doesn’t like the way Howl and Talon and Savage and Ravage and Feral were treated. Her Social Systems instructor would call them Second-Class citizens, she thinks. It’s a mild term, but what it represents is awful. Leska doesn’t like class and caste systems, where people are stratified by random attributes and their rights are stripped away because of it.

Leska draws away from her windows – her new room has two, and she has her room all to herself, which is – kind of lonely. She misses Serra and Echuu and the rest of her crechemates, but her friends the most. Echuu must be lonely. He’s the only initiate in their clan who hasn’t either been taken as a padawan or aged out of the creche and chosen a Service Corps to become a Disciple of until a master took him on.

She likes the new way – turning Initiates into Disciples, letting them stay, instead of sending them away. Well, some still went away, if they chose AgriCorps or ExploraCorps or a specific program from one of the Corps that was hosted elsewhere, but it was less… dreadful.

She tiptoes over to her door and presses her ear against it, scrunching her brow and trying to get a sense of where her sibling padawans were, and her Master.

Their new quarters are twice the size of other Master-Padawan lodgings. Master Plo has a special suite sectioned off with an airlock, because of his atmospheric requirements. Leska needs a mask to go in there, like Master Plo needs a mask to come out, but hers adds oxygen, and his takes it away. There’s a step in the middle of their living area, with the kitchen and an actual dining table on the upper half, and the sitting room on the lower half, which they mostly stocked with floor pillows and sack chairs and a hammock in the corner which had been piled with blankets until it was really more of a nest.

There are only three rooms for the Padawans, and to Leska’s confusion, they were not distributed evenly at all. Howl and Talon, the eldest, shared one, Savage, Ravage, and Feral shared the second, and Leska had the third all to herself. She wouldn’t have minded sharing with Feral. He was sweet, and he wasn’t as skittish as the others, and he really was maybe too young to be a padawan, but no one had raised a protest when Master Plo took him in too.

Well, they had, but not over Feral’s age.

She thinks she can sense them in the living area, but she really is going to need the refresher soon, and she wouldn’t mind a snack either.

She just hates it when she walks out of her room and they all shuffle into theirs. She wishes she had a door directly into one of the two freshers sandwiched in between the bedrooms, but they only opened to the living area.

Steeling herself, Leska presses her door key and slips out, holding her breath and drawing up her shields. She can hide really well, like most of the Initiates her age, but she always holds her breath, and her concentration breaks when she lets it out again, and the Nightbrother’s seemed to notice her more easily than other people did when she was hiding herself.

Savage is in the kitchen, frowning over vegetables while absently flipping a cutting knife in his hand, and Feral is on the counter, bouncing his heels off the cupboards. Talon lounging on a pile of cushions, scowling doubtfully at a video on a datapad, and Howl and Ravage are sitting at the table with Master Plo, sounding out letters in Arubesh, both simmering with embarrassed frustration.

They speak very well, but not all of them can read.

Leska makes it to the ‘fresher unnoticed.

When she comes back out, she tries to stand still and just…observe, for a bit, because she’d like to get to know her brother-padawan’s better, but Master Plo _ruins_ it by addressing her.

“Leska, would you care to assist Savage with supper?”

She freezes, the Nightbrothers all freeze, and everyone is staring at her. Her voice crawls down to her stomach and starts pinching at her insides.

 _I can shoot pirates_ , she tells herself. _This is nothing_.

Her bravery comes back a little, and her jaw doesn’t feel quite so much like stone. “Of course, Master Plo.” She finds her voice, and edges towards the kitchen warily, so as not to startle anybody. “What are you cooking?” She inquires politely.

Savage still has the knife gripped in a very tense hand, black and yellow face utterly rigid as he eyes her. “I don’t know.” Her mutters through stiff lips. Feral tips back a little, turning his head to look at her and barely keeping himself from teetering backwards.

“We don’t have these kinds of vegetables back ho – back on Dathomir.” The youngling says. “He doesn’t know what they are or what to do with them. He’s a good cook though. I promise.”

“Oh.” Leska says simply. “Well. Okay.” She nods, and trots up to the kitchen.

 _I know about vegetables_ , she thinks. _This will be easy. Simple. Not at all scary_.

Savage is a _little_ scary, but she peeks up at him after staring at the cutting board and the fresh produce Master Plo must have ordered, and he shies back awkwardly.

Apparently, so is Leska.

This does not make her happy.


	8. Chapter 8

When Obi-Wan’s comm re-syncs with the TempleNet, he receives a small flood of held messages. He has a handful of quick reports from Satine, letting him know she’s safe, occasionally referencing incidents that make him clench his jaw to the point of pain. He worries about her, but her _buir_ and her _bajurii_ are keeping her safe – as safe as anyone can be in the midst of a civil war, at least – and she’s no longer defenseless herself.

Padme has sent him another poem, a ballad, really, and an extensive one at that. She’s also progressed from the Junior Legislators and received an acceptance to the Royal Academy of Naboo, which educated most of the planets future monarchs, governors, and senators. The sketch she sends of the campus is breathtaking. She’s doing very well for herself, and he’s happy for her. He sends her his congratulations.

He’s also received a number of invitations from his friends and acquaintances in politics, and requests permission from his master to attend a few of those invitations in the Senate Building.

Master Gallia and Siri are off-world, but Master Rancisis introduces Obi-Wan to Knight Ichi-Tan Micoda, a tan-skinned, brown haired, orange-eyed human who had volunteered to assist with the Order’s political representation. From what Obi-Wan read between the lines, Knight Micoda was being primed to take the representative diplomat’s role so Master Gallia could be more gently ushered into a seat on the Council.

Knight Micoda accepts his company easily, the Knight having a mild, affable manner that Obi-Wan would completely fall for if not the shrewd, burning intensity that lit his eyes in that first second where the Dome came into view. Obi-Wan wonders how much the Knight knows about the hazards of the Senate, but clearly, he isn’t taking his placement lightly.

Of course, no one with Master Gallia’s vetted approval was someone to take lightly. Obi-Wan _likes_ Master Gallia, in spite of her somewhat contentious relationship with his own master, but she intimidated most of the Order.

“Let’s tag our comms.” The Knight stops Obi-Wan before they enter the building, the prickly shadow of it, more obvious now that they knew it for what it was, already sapping at the edges of his senses, like the Force had a head-cold. “Master Dooku and Padawan Vosa are in attendance somewhere, so if you can’t find me, find them.”

Obi-Wan syncs his comm with the Knights, who comments favorably on the comm-link being embedded in his vambrace for convenience. This way, the two comms will constantly ping back and forth, tracking their location and the signal strength. If for some reason they lost contact, which, in the Senate, they shouldn’t unless something was wrong, they’d have somewhere to start.

To Obi-Wan, the new security measure seems like good sense and like paranoia. He chews his lower lip as they enter the Senate, and head separate ways after Knight Micoda confirms Obi-Wan’s plans and that he knows where he’s headed. The Senate was almost as befuddling a maze as the Temple was. Almost.

He makes his way to the Kaleesh Ambassadorial suites first, hoping he hasn’t missed the window of the Khagan’s visit – the invitation had been posted six days before his return to Coruscant, and he hadn’t received a reply this morning when he’d accepted last night. He was just hoping luck would be on his side.

Luck is – prepositionally – on his side. Khagan Jai Sheelal is indeed still on Coruscant, and he is violently pleased to see Obi-Wan.

As Obi-Wan is all but hauled past the guards and into the suite, he quails at his childish notion that perhaps memory had been deceiving him to how tall the Kaleesh were. He’d been hoping they would seem less frightfully imposing now that’s he’s grown some. The hope is immediately quashed.

“Dai Khagrah!” Jai Sheelal booms, and Obi-Wan notices that the sound hits the wall and seems to be swallowed, rather than echo. Someone’s fixed the acoustics for the Kaleesh’s booming calls. “Blessed is this abode to have you.”

Obi-Wan tries not to fall flat on his face when Khagan Jai Sheelal releases him, and manages to turn his imbalance into a perfunctory bow.

“Thank you, Khagan.” Obi-Wan replies. “I wasn’t sure you would still be ….” Obi-Wan trails off, because without courtesy or warning, Khagan Jai Sheelal appears to have abruptly left the room.

Obi-Wan stares blankly at the wide door he’d disappeared through, and a moment later, the Kalee Warlord strides back in with a youngling in mint green robes, with pale blue scares around its – her? – face.

“Dai Khagrah, I present to you Kenobu, daughter of Khagan Ronderu Lij Kummar, by my own bloodline, named in your honor.” Jai Sheelal rasps out, deep, gravelly voice utterly serious, as he holds the toddler out for inspection. Pale, flint-like eyes peer out at him from a dark, red-brown face, shadowed by a sort of parted veil, as opposed to the hard masks adult Kaleesh wore.

Obi-Wan feels the world take on a strange shape and hue, taking the youngling as she’s passed to him utterly without the active permission of his mind, which is simply stuck on a sharp note.

“….you-“ His voice squeaks, and he clears his throat and tries again, staring gobsmacked at the girl, whose blunt brow had pinches, and whose chubby, reptilian hands took surprisingly careful hold of his braid, which seemed to have garnered her intense interest. “ – named your child after me?”

Jai Sheelal laughs, an amused, harsh, barking sort of sound, and he drops a hand on Obi-Wan head, plucking at his hair slightly before removing it. Obi-Wan doesn’t cringe at the gesture, but it does leave him disgruntled. He may be small in comparison to the Kaleesh, but he wasn’t a _youngling_.

“In my clan alone, there are two Obiwaen’s, three Obiwu’s, and one Kenobon, in addition to my first born, Dai Khagrah. Your name is a name of hope and victory. This is as it should be.” He chuffs. “Come, sit. Tell me of your battles, and I shall share of you mine, yes?”

Ears burning, face hot, and arms full of one decidedly sleepy youngling – Obi-Wan doesn’t wonder if Jai Sheelal hadn’t woken her from a nap to greet him – Obi-Wan follows the Kaleesh to the sitting area. “Oh, certainly.” Obi-Wan replies, voice thin, tone polite, mind utterly bewildered.

He’d forgotten how utterly overwhelming the Kaleesh were too.

~*~

Ben eyes his healer. His healer eyes him.

He wonders what he must have done wrong, and strums his fingers along the feathery edges of the pages of the book in his pocket, the dathomiri tome something to puzzle over in his idle moments – few though that they were.

“So…” Ben prompts his healer, feeling oddly sheepish in her presence today.

“So.” Healer Kala replies, one ear twitching back. “I feel perhaps we should discuss the monumentality of the decision you made in taking your own self as your padawan learner?” She says bluntly, a wealth of calm exterior over an inscrutable center.

Ben feels a pricklish chill rise from his heels to the crown of his head. “Ah.” He remarks wincingly.

She blinks patiently at him, and Ben rubs ruefully at his beard.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

“So was I.” She replies, a slight tightness in her voice. “But I now know what I know, and I have decided that I should continue to know it. I am your Healer first. This doesn’t change that.”

“It changes everything.” Ben replies honestly.

Her whiskers tremble a bit, and she runs a hand up her snout, grooming the whiskers back to rights.

“It does.” Healer Kala acknowledges. “But the truth of the circumstances has proven….illuminating, in helping me understand what you must feel every day. The weight, the urgency, the frustration. Perhaps forgetting that detail would make me more comfortable, but it will not really _help_ either of us, would it?” She inquired determinately, a harder, firmer conviction in her gaze, not just the look of a healer trying to help him fight his demons – but the look of someone who has found their own demons to fight, and swears they’ll fight them together.

It’s a rallying look Ben’s seen most often on a battlefield between _vod_.

The sight of it makes something in his chest quiver, but his next breath seems easier than the one before it.

“I suppose not.” Ben concedes.

A furry lip twitches, wry acknowledgement, and she draws her legs up into her chair, settling in in a way that feels more personal, more intrinsic, than the careful behaviors and mannerisms they’ve both maintained throughout their previous sessions. “Well then, Ben,” She says evenly. “let’s talk about what it’s like to raise Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

~*~

Crawling irritation rises inside Quinlan as he navigates his way to his new Soul Healer, and he wrestles with himself not to lash out and punch the wall. It would feel satisfying to vent, but it would also hurt, and that would be stupid. Instead, he scratches at his arms and clenches his jaw, feeling flushed.

He’s not even sure why he’s so irritated at switching Healers. His circumstances had changed, though he couldn’t exactly describe how, even to himself, and that change had prompted the Reconciliation Council to reassign him.

Whatever.

He’d visited Aayla that morning, ostensibly to deliver a crate full of _dakunn_ kits, now that the Halls had cleared them from quarantine, but mostly just to see her light up when she saw him. He’d wavered between delight and dread at her reaction, because he remembers what he did to her, and almost did her her, perfectly clearly, which meant it wasn’t part of whatever was taken away, it was just _him_ , and that-

He was dangerous. Even when he felt good, it felt like his mood turned on a dime, his emotional control as wobbly as his emotion themselves, his behavior impulsive and even reckless, which he could see spiraling so easily into dangerous. The most clear-headed he’d felt – when he wasn’t meditating with Obi-Wan and borrowing the red-head’s steadiness – was when he was trying to mediate between his master and Shmi.

Even just thinking about them, and the baby, brought a rush of _fond-anxious-responsibility_ that was both somehow messy and stable. Maybe because their problems weren’t his problems, or because it was Tholme and Shmi. Two human embodiments of bedrock. They were complicated, and their situation was complicated, but his feelings for them weren’t.

But his feelings weren’t exactly the problem. His connection to the Force was. It used to be, his emotions clouded his connection, but now – now it felt like they electrified it unpredictably, his emotions feeding into the Force, the Force feeding into his emotions in an intensifying loop that eventually just – exploded. On Dathomir he could walk off into the swamp and just let it out – or pour it into the magics he was studying. But that wasn’t so easy in the Temple.

Quinlan finally reaches the right room and lets himself in. Unlike the chamber with the sand garden he recalls from his other Healer, this room is fairly low light, with brighter lamps beside a sofa and two chairs. The walls on either side where taken up entirely by aquariums, thick with gracefully, wavering plants and lazily drifting marine life, and bright spires of vivid coral. The back wall, contrasting to the reflective, shimmery nature of the aquariums, was a dark, flat green, swallowing excess light.

The room could have felt oppressive, but it didn’t. It felt quiet, pleasantly secluded and unbothered. Even just watching a jellyfish drift for a few minutes he could feel his irritation calming.

“I should get one of these.” He mutters.

His healer knocks before entering, though the door remained open after Quinlan entered, and a male Voss healer walked inside. The species was bald, the males’ skin blue, his eyes orange and pupiless, with distinctive shaded markings around his face and neck. Quinlan is sure there’s a joke in there somewhere, about the species and his surname, but he refrains from quipping it out.

The Healer was…younger than Quinlan expected. For humaoid’s, Voss were hard to call ages on, remaining largely unchanged from maturation, even at advanced age, but he didn’t just look young, Quinlan has the sense through the Force that he _is_ younger, something about the shape and…springiness, almost, of his energy.

“Do you prefer your title, or may I call you Quinlan?” The healer inquires, his voice soft and smooth and friendly. “I am Healer Weyl-Va.” Quinlan almost misses the consonant in his pronunciation, sounding closer to _why-va._

“Quinlan’s fine, doc.” Quinlan replies, turning and sinking down into one of the chairs, gesturing for the healer to pick his seat on the sofa opposite. “Where do you wanna start?” He asks, crossing his arms.

The healer settles himself, shrugging off his pale blue healers robe and folding it neatly, setting it on one end of the couch, revealing a sleeveless, ornately detailed purple on purple tunic beneath. When he sits, he certainly sprawls more than Healer Kala did, but not as expansively as Quinlan tends to. Relaxing into one side of the sofa, Weyl-Va props a thoughtful chin on a prim knuckle, blinking softly.

“Given our unusual circumstances, Quinlan,” The healers starts. “Perhaps you would like to take the lead, and we can work from there. What do you think I can help you with?” He asks softly.

Quinlan studies the Voss, trying to repress the side of himself that takes the proposition as a challenge, as a test to pick apart, as something to rebel against.

Quinlan takes a breath, drumming his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Yeah.” He nods. “Okay.”

He takes another breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: i didn't really mean to end this chapter like a cliffy, but it was over two thousand words already and I'd rather do the rest of Quinlan's session in a separate chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

“I need….” Quinlan stumbles, frustrated at the attempt to even explain. “…guidance on emotional control.” He says. “But it’s…more than that. My emotions feed into the Dark Side, and the Dark Side feeds back into me, and it’s like I just can’t… I know better, and I just get stuck in what I’m feeling anyways.”

Healer Weyl-Va hums, a thrumming, almost mechanical sound, an effect of the vocal tones of his species which had often gotten them mistaken for cyborgs.

“All of your emotions?” The healer inquires.

Quinlan frowns. “What?”

“All of your emotions feed into the Dark Side?” The young healer clarifies. “Joy, peace, surprise?”

Quinlan shifts, thinking about it. “I don’t get a of peaceful feelings these days.” He mutters. “But…” He frowns. “I think so?”

Bald brows lift. “Happiness doesn’t seem very Dark Side inclined.”

Quinlan shifts again, running a nail under the edge of his glove. “Satisfaction, pleasure, they turn Dark really easy.”

“And are those what you mean by happiness? Do you not feel genuine, simple delight? At all?” Healer Weyl-Va inquires.

“I do.” Quinlan replies slowly, thinking of Tholme and Shmi, and the baby, and the panicked dumbfounded look on his master’s face, so incongruous from his typical nature. Thinking of Aayla that morning, lighting up to see him. “It doesn’t last. Every time I really feel happy, something just – ruins it. I’ll get really sad, or really mad, for no reason. A stray thought, or a small hiccup.” He clenches and unclenches his knuckles, glancing aside to watch something scrabble over a spire of coral. Even this morning, that brief delight had turned so quickly to dread.

Quinlan glances back as Healer Weyl-Va smiles gently, something wry and insightful to the expression. “It’s very easy to shift from one intense emotion to the other – that isn’t uncommon. Joy and Sadness may seem like opposites, but in truth they sit side by side. Chemically speaking. Because your brain is already highly primed, that shift may seem more intense, but in truth it is only one small step from one to the other. You may not believe it, given the Order’s culture, but such an occurrence is quite normal.”

“But the rest of the Order doesn’t struggle the way I do. They can control themselves and their emotions. Mine are like a speeder with no breaks that I can barely steer.” Quinlan mutters derisively.

Orange eyes study him thoughtfully. “Some Jedi ignore their emotions – those that have a gift for compartmentalization. Some Jedi work with their emotions, utilizing them as tools to conduct their trade. Some Jedi repress them, and call it mastery. But with rare exceptions of a speciological nature, sentient beings cannot _control_ their emotions. They cannot be turned on and off – not without severe psychological harm, at least.”

“So you’re saying I’m hopeless.” Quinlan scoffs.

“I am saying. Quinlan, that you need more specific expectations of what you mean by wishing for emotional ‘control’.” Healer Weyl-Va corrects softly. “Ideally, we can achieve a process through which you can accept your emotions, and work through them, understanding that they influence your thoughts and behaviors, but overcoming the impulse to conduct your actions solely on emotional grounds. And I think you have far more control already than you believe you do.”

Quinlan shakes his head a little, disbelieving. “It’s not control. Not really. I just…bottle it up until it explodes. I can’t let go of them, the way I should be able to, the way I used to be able to. The Dark Side-“

“Pause a moment, please.” Healer Weyl-Va asks. Quinlan grits his teeth, nodding. “I don’t think I got a proper answer earlier, and I would like one – you remarked that your emotions connected you to the Dark Side. I asked if this was true even of happiness?”

Quinlan frowns, scratching at his wrist again and watching a fish dart in the aquarium behind the healer as he replied, a streaking flash of brilliant blue-purple. “It feeds into the Force, into my connection to the Force, and it just gets…overwhelming.”

“But is it Dark?” Healer Weyl-Va presses. “It is _destructive_?” He enunciates.

“Well, no, but-“

“But it is not as you have been taught.” Healer Wyl-Va finishes for him. Quinlan shoots the healer an impatient look, and nods.

“Yeah.”

“That’s alright.” Healer Weyl-Va says, a pragmatic sort of contentedness in his soothing voice. “We can work with that.”

~*~

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to say he escaped the Kaleesh but… there may be times when he’s… _concerned_ , that they may not release him back to the Jedi. Jai Sheelal is very aggressively enthusiastic in inviting him to Kalee, insisting he must visit so that both Jai Sheelal and Lij Kummar could enjoy his presence, as they could not on Coruscant. His people, he enunciates, his Basic much improved over the last three years, would be overjoyed to have him grace their homeworld.

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to be rude, but the idea of an entire planet of overwhelming, very nearly _reverent_ Kaleesh makes him uncomfortable. He understands the impact of what he has done for them, but he was really only just carrying out his duty. And, at the time, carrying it out in desperation and near delirium.

Fortunately, Ambassador San Luruur, a tad more perceptive of human reticence and anxiety, aids in his extraction from the Kalee suites upon their return. To Obi-Wan’s pleasant surprise, one of the Ambassador’s new assistants appears to be a Kalee-Corellian citizen, which remarks upon a more advanced progressiveness in the Kalee infrastructure and social strata than he’d have expected.

Obi-Wan’s visit with Senator Bel Iblis is slightly less social, given that the Corellian is seething over the ongoing trade dispute, having just spent six hours in committee.

The Trade Federation was pushing for the consent to more effectively arm their vessels, given an ongoing series of attacks they were suffering in various sectors along the mid rim, citing undue burden in being forced to hire out for security. What goes unsaid is that such armament is already in existence in their outer-rim trade routes, over which the Senate has less oversight.

Bel Iblis doesn’t doubt the threat exists – pirates are common, and the Trade Fed has plenty of enemies and rivals – but the kind of equipment and the legislation of the potential authorizations would give them far more bullying power than he’s comfortable with - than he believes anyone should be comfortable with. Particularly considering that since the tensions between the Trade Federation, the Corellian System, and the Trade Clans hiked, there’s been a suspiciously convenient increase in transport attacks and thefts against the Clans, as well as falling outs with long held contracts, who suddenly and bizarrely switched trade partners.

He rages that he wouldn’t be surprised if the Trade Federation were arranging some of the attacks even against themselves, just to push forward their agenda.

He believes several of his colleagues hold the same opinion, but the economic committees seem prepared to humor the Trade Federation in their request if the Trade Federation will yield their opposition on the matter of the committees proposed tax on trade routes in the Outer Rim, a proposal which has had the Trade Federation, the Trade Clans, _and_ the Outer Rim territories up in arms, deadlocking the matter for the past decade.

In the midst of this discussion, Obi-Wan realizes that with Mandalore distracted and their stance firmly in opposition thus weakened by a lack of their representation, being one of the strongest systems in the Outer Rim, that if the Trade Federation yields, the rest of the opposition will crumble. It was a perfect culmination of poor circumstances.

Then again, so much politics was.

“Doesn’t the Senate realize how detrimental that will be for the Outer Rim?” Obi-Wan questions vehemently. “Cost of goods is already more expensive that far from the Core, as is trade even without an additional tax levy, and the increase will put some goods beyond the economic grasp of many systems _already_ just scraping by.”

Senator Bel Iblis gives him a look, amusement mixed with pity, and shakes his head. “Some do, some prefer not to consider it, and some don’t care.” He replies. “The Outer Rim is by far the largest sector of the Galaxy, but it has the least amount of representation and oversight by the Galactic Senate, and without much political power, they contribute far more resources than they receive.”

Obi-Wan is slightly surprised by the corellian’s concern, given that Corallia was a Core planet. He says as much, and Senator Bel Iblis cracks a slightly self-depricating grin. “That we are, and we had our karking asses saved by Kalee, didn’t we? And Kalee is very nearly Wild Space.”

Obi-Wan blinks a little in surprise. He’d more or less intentionally allied the two systems, but Senator Bel Iblis had been contrary and difficult to read, living up to the Corellian reputation. Obi-Wan hadn’t realized that the surprised allies cared beyond the mutual agreement between them.

The idea of the man before him and Jai Sheelal being friends makes him grin, and the corellian gives him a wary look.

Their social call is cut short shortly after that, an more properly arranged appointment taking precendence on the Senator's time, and Bel Iblis apologises blandly, inviting Obi-Wan for caf some time, as his morning were usually free until at least his second cup, by the grace of his very astute adjunts. Obi-Wan politely thanks the man for the invitation before recalling exactly the acidic swill Senator Bel Iblis passed off as caf and pulling a face.

He leaves the Senator laughing, at least.

He’s put out to discover Senator Organa is away, attending a conference elsewhere, and receives a quick message from his master just after he’s finally extracted himself from a very enthusiastic aide who had absolutely insisted on serving him refreshments. The Alderaani staff had always been very accommodating, but today they’d seemed downright _affectionate_ , and Obi-Wan couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.

He suspects Breha’s - Queen Breha’s – influence.

The padawan dutifully checks in with Knight Micoda before departing the dome, and catches a shuttle back to the Temple just in time to meet his master on the steps.

“Feel like going out, padawan?” His aster greets.

“I was just out.” Obi-Wan replies blithely, and then smirks cheekily at his master’s pinched, unimpressed look.

“Well, I wasn’t.” Master Ben mutters. “I think you’re about old enough now to be introduced to-“

His master pauses suddenly, biting his tongue, and Obi-Wan cocks his head, frowning at the bitten off comment.

“ – a place I know.” His master finishes, slightly less enthusiastic.

Obi-Wan lifts a brow. “Sounds…dubious.” He comments.

It’s his master’s turn to smirk. “Every Jedi needs at least one dubious contact or three, padawan mine.”

“Yeah?” Obi-Wan replies, lips twitching, eyes alight. “How many do _you_ have, exactly?”

“Exactly as many as I need.” His master sniffs primly. “Do you wish to accompany me or not?”

“Of course, Master.” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes.

Maser Ben sighs. “I suppose, strictly speaking, we’re not going to be in polite company.”

“I’m not in polite company now.” Obi-Wan quips jauntily.

“ _Padawan_ …”


	10. Chapter 10

Ben has to yank sharply on Obi-Wan’s armor to save the teen from being bowled over by the party of industrial workers pouring out the door at the end of their lunch break, and still the pair gets bumped.

Like his padawan, who donned his upper vambraces and chest plate for attending to the Senate Dome, Ben was wearing his for their public outing, and he was grateful for it when he gets jostled despite his caution, and ends up nearly slammed into the doorway.

“Beg pardon.” He utters, knowing no harm was truly meant by it. The workers coming in and out of Dex’s Diner were a rougher sort, their minds and focus often singularly objective and not always in the present moment.

One of them gives him an odd look for his manners, and tips their safety cap. Ben nods in turn and ushers his padawan through the small passage and into a diner just past it’s mid-afternoon rush. Grease, salt, toasted bread and the smell of caf assault their noses, stirred around by a cooling system. Platters, cups, and cutlery all scraped and clattered, and an unintelligible cacophony competed with some slightly outdated holocorder station playing over the diner.

In spite of the crowd and the shabby exterior, the tables and floor were clean, and the food smelled amazing. Ben eyes a few less savory sorts tucked into booths or onto barstools – Dex’s diner was, among other things, a – legally speaking – neutral location. Dex was friendly, had a colorful history himself, and kept out of his customers business.

And then, well, then he spots-

“Sian!” Obi-Wan blurts out, joyed to see his friend, clearly forgetting his master still has him by the collar when he jaunts forward. Ben lurches, letting go, and follows, making eye contact with Qui-Gon, who looks surprised.

Ben’s surprised too, but he shouldn’t be. It was as Master Jinn’s padawan that he’d been introduced to the place, and if his memory serves – he casts an eye over Padawan Jeisel, the devaronian padawan looking decides worse for wear with patches of her fine fur shaved off her arms and face and neck, bluish welts flaking off what looks like some kind of ointment, and Ben can’t tell if it’s a rash or insect bites. Apparently, memory served.

Qui-Gon had had a habit of taking his student to Dex’s first thing after a mission that left them slightly worse for wear. Greasy diner slop was his comfort method of choice.

“Don’t poke me!” Sian yelps, swatting Obi-Wan’s hand.

“What happened to you? Did you just get back?” Obi-Wan asks enthusiastically.

“Qui-Gon.” Ben greets.

“Ben.” Qui-Gon tips his head, and invites the pair to sit.

“- ever heard of a toydarian spitting nettle?” Sian is explaining. “I swear, the worse it is, the more my master wants to keep it.”

“I did apologize.” Qui-Gon mutters defensively. “Had I known-“

His padawan shoots him a hot, flashing iridescent look, and Qui-Gon shuts up, his expression curdling. Ben is impressed.

“What about you? You were gone for more than a month! Did you find who you were looking for?” Sian inquires, as Ben lowers himself into the booth beside Qui-Gon, trying not to step on the man’s long legs, and Obi-Wan slides Sian down the booth seat so he can sit. She takes offense and climbs back over him so she’s on the outside again.

“We recovered Master Narec, yes. And his padawan, whom I would like to introduce you to. Padawan Ventress could use a little help adjusting, I think.” Obi-Wan says. “Force, there’s so much to say about Dathomir.”

“Dathomir?” Qui-Gon jumps in, brows lifting. “The witches planet?”

“Padawan Ventress is dathomiri, by birth.” Ben explains mildly.

“As are the other six Nightbrother padawans we brought back.” Obi-Wan adds, glancing between the two masters; Ben’s tensed spine and Qui-Gon huffy, scoldingly lifted chin.

“You took six more padawans?” Sian blurts, looking both aghast and delighted, like she had one of her _ideas_.

“You took your padawan to _Dathomir_?” Qui-Gon inquires sternly.

“Master Koon took five of them, and Master Che the sixth. Obi-Wan is more than enough for me to handle-“

Obi-Wan shoots him a sharp look, suspecting he meant that _badly_ , and Ben flashes the teen a smirk.

“- and I was hardly going to ship the girl back to her people alone. She had a choice to make, and I an inquiry in need of answer. It’s hardly your concern.” He adds pointedly, and Qui-Gon scoffs. “Besides which, we were successful on all fronts, though I wish the experience had been more pleasant for Padawan Ventress. Her family situation was not…kind.”

“Quinlan and I got to learn from the Nightsisters a bit.” Obi-Wan adds enthusiastically.

“What-“ Master Qui-Gon hisses.

“I can’t wait to show you.” Obi-Wan finishes, to Sian’s eager nodding, and shoots his friends master a challenging look. Qui-Gon stiffens, and Ben tries not to stare at his padawan, wondering where that sort of defiant animosity was coming from-

Oh.

It seems Bruck Chun’s re-emergence at the temple had stirred up more than one bad memory.

Ben places a hand over Qui-Gon’s wrist briefly, before he can say something that will really get the red-head’s temper up and no doubt sorely disappoint his own padawan.

“The Nightsisters are an obscure tribe.” Ben says nonchalantly. “It’s hardly Sith magick.”

That does the trick, and Qui-Gon reigns himself in, having gone a little pale at the reminder of the real threat out there.

“I see.” He mutters, grumbling. “Still, it’s nothing I’d have let my padawan do.”

Ben bites his tongue and really, really wishes, for _once_ , that Qui-Gon Jinn could manage to say _not_ exactly the wrong thing.

“Well, I’m _not_ your padawan, am I?” Obi-Wan snaps. Even Sian goes wide-eyed at his tone.

Qui-Gons brow furrows, and he opens his mouth to speak-

“Temper.” Ben tuts at the teenager, feeling the sting of old wounds in his padawan’s mind, the anger twinned by shame. To be perfectly fair, Ben’s never gotten over it either, but Ben had resigned himself to that particular hurt long ago.

He also glances sharply at Qui-Gon, who paused, at least, and seems to get the message-

 _My padawan, my problem_.

“Apologies.” Obi-Wan stresses out, dropping his gaze to the tabletop. He doesn’t specify whom he’s apologizing to.

Ben slides his boot next to his padawans with a nudge, hoping it is his padawans foot and not Padawan Jeisel’s, and reaches down their bond with a touch of a empathy, trying to soothe the rougher edges.

 _‘‘Sorry_.’’

Blue-grey eyes with a fading touch of green glance up with the faint edge of a smile, a look Ben matches, for having projected the thought at each other at the exact same time.

“I think you really will be more ameniable after a demonstration.” Ben says with levity, as if the past moment were utterly nondescript. “Nightsister Magicks channel the Living Force near exclusively, which I’m sure will catch your interest.” He informs Qui-Gon. “And Shadow-Walking can be so…convenient.”

“Shadow-Walking?” The Jinn-Jeisel pair both lean in a little, interest piqued.

“Is that what the name implies it is?” Sian asks, sprawling eagerly over her edge of the table, keen glance shifting flicker-quick between the other three before decidedly ignoring the tensionsthere, scratching idly at one of the welts on her neck.

“Jinn, the kind of company you keep is gonna give me a bad reputation, eh?” The brawl voice of a paunchy besalisk sweeps over them abruptly, and the quartet looks up into the friendly face of Dexter Jettster, proprieter and cook, and his grease-stained apron. “First the little sweetheart, and now this? We may have to talk.”

“Dex.” Qui-Gon smiles at the besalisk, who slouches lazily. “May I introduce Master Ben Naasade and Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Qui-Gon sweeps a hand across the table, gesturing, and Ben receives a weighty pat on the shoulder from Dex that nonetheless displays a level of care not to bruise – besalisk being a much sturdier species than humans.

Not that it was really necessary, given the _beskar_.

“Iron-skins.” The besalisk warbles. “The best kind, too.” The reptilians brow goes up, looking professionally impressed before one of four hands lifts to scratch at a flubbery chin. “Kenobi, though, do I know a Kenobi? Heard that somewhere.” He shakes his head, not recalling – that he will admit to, at least. “Good to meet you, kid.” He holds out a different hand, and Obi-Wan shakes it with aplumb, Sian bemused as she leans back to make room for them to do so.

Dex eyes Ben up and down next. “You...” He shakes his head, eyes narrowing a little. “I don’t know about you. You look suspect.”

Ben smiles pleasantly. “That’s perfectly reasonable.” He replies, and Dex barks out a laugh.

“Maybe I like you.” He considers. “What can we get’cha?”

~*~

Fay does not know whether to be awed or alarmed, the more she works with Anakin Skywalker. Her own power was rooted deep in the Living Force, and at first she had suspected he might be more connected to the Cosmic Force, but the brief meditations and exercises she can work him into (younglings his age were quite distractable, even Temple-raised, and in his case, more so when he was bored. And little geniuses were often bored.) had rid her of that notion. If he had a stronger inherent connection to any single aspect of the Force, Fay couldn’t tell.

What she could tell, however, was that he was overwhelming connected to _all_ of it.

And he had more of his mothers talents than perhaps his teachers gave him credit for. The small sun he appeared to be in the Force to their senses was nothing compared to what she found when she managed a glimpse into the power inside him.

She had just, _just_ gotten him to a point where his gifts could open up, where Anakin was relaxing into the grasp of the Force, when someone – a very irate, very scared someone – had slammed a wall in her direction.

Next thing she knew, Anakin was flopping back on his meditation mat with an ‘oof!’and wheedling about being hungry.

“I did it right, didn’t I?” He implores, floppy blonde hair a wild mess. “Just for a second?”

Fay could hardly argue with that, so she nods and lets him and his friend – his glaring, brown eyed adopted brother – scamper off.

Fay had frowned after them, once they’d gone, and she disliked to frown. The little psychic had seemed apprehensive of her, Anakin’s first few little sessions, and she was concerned about their level of co-dependency, but she also knew that psychics like him struggled dearly in life, and he was very young. She wasn’t opposed to indulging him a little.

And alienating her pupil by banishing his best friend from observing their lessons would hardly make them any progress.

She has been debating with herself what to do about it, given the most recent development, and finds herself quite beaten to the punch, as was the phrase.

Little Jax Pavan (Skywalker? Pavan-Skywalker? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure anyone was sure.) climbs up the little grassy hill in the gardens, under the gnarled old tree she was sitting under, plants his feet and crosses his arms and stares at her very seriously.

Anakin is nowhere in sight – nor in the gardens at all, as far as she can tell.

Fay peers calmly back at the boy, thinking that for one not of her blood, he takes very much after Shmi Skywalker.

His mouth twists, he bites his lip, and his hands scrunch at his sleeves.

There is a very cautious, hesitant tap at her shields, more a brush in passing than any actual contact.

‘ _Yes, little one_?’ She isn’t sure why he does not speak, that was not typical of psychics, but if this is his preferred method of communication, it is only courtesy to meet him on his level.

‘ _You should be more careful_.’ The voice that touches her mind doesn’t match the boy in front of her – though to be fair, she’d rather expected his voice to be an imitation of Anakins, though there was no rationality in that expectation. His mental touch is like the lull of waves on sand, the soft snap of wind on sails, the difference between sun-hot stone and relieving shadow. If he did speak, she thinks now she’d expect a voice lower than Anakin’s, one that carried farther but had a bit of a rasp.

‘ _I do not intend to bring your friend to any harm, little one_.’ Fay replies to the push of a mental thought, letting her sincerity and care bleed through. She is trying to prevent that boy harm. ‘ _I’m trying to help him.’_

‘ _Anakin can harm himself_.’ Jax replies, insistent and scared. ‘ _He’s not ready_.’

‘ _Which is why I’m trying to help him_.’ Fay soothes.

‘ _You don’t understand_!’ The lull turns to the gust of a gale. ‘ _He’s not like us. He’s more than that._ ’

‘ _I know the strength of his power is perhaps greater than even mine_ -‘ Fay radiates concern, and calm. She doesn’t mean to upset him. In fact, she’d prefer to sooth him, if she can.

‘ _It’s not strength. It’s not power_.’ Waves churn down, a tumult, an undertow.

Fay pauses. ‘ _Jax, why are you so afraid_?’ She inquires.

Brown eyes water, a flash of sky over sea turning gray. ‘ _He’s my brother. It’s not fair_.’

‘ _What isn’t_?’ Fay hadn’t thought the boy might be envious, he didn’t seem-

‘ _What he has to do_.’ Jax all but spits the thought, like kicking sand into surf.

Fay lets out a soft, gentle exhale. ‘ _I’m not asking all that much of him, am I_?’ Fay lets herself open, though the gesture may be unnecessary – psychics didn’t operate by the same boundaries as anyone else did. ‘ _I’m not going to take him away from you, you know_.’ She offers reassurance.

Frustration and wary secretiveness bubbles out at her, the boy stomps away, and Fay has no idea if they came to any sort of conclusion or agreement at all.

But she resolves to be more cautious with Anakin’s limits – lack thereof – after that.

And Jax doesn’t attend any more of their lessons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: *tries to write fluff*  
> Characters: *Have emotional issues*  
> Author: O.o


	11. Chapter 11

Ben receives an absolutely intriguing directive from Yaddle to report to the Battlemaster’s dojo and leaves Obi-Wan, Shaak Ti, and the Skywalkers in the observatory, playing a rather involved challenge game to improve their Knowledge of Star Systems.

Ben is casually ignoring the fact that Obi-Wan is under-enrolled for his current lesson cycle, figuring that his recent gamut with the Senior Padawan levels and his assistance in Shmi’s gamut for Knighthood could afford him some leeway. In so far as he’s aware, Obi-Wan is currently only taking Law and Treatise sixth-level, Ancient Civilizations of the Core as a self-paced study(Ben doesn’t remember signing him off on that one, but he doesn’t investigate the matter), and the medical courses Healer Ni Hiella kept signing him up for. He’s also signed up to teach a class of Force Structures, which takes place once a week, with the hope of finding someone who reaches a level of understanding which will in turn allow _them_ to teach such classes.

Ben strictly forbids him from including Shadow-Walking in those lessons. He restricts that skill in general to Knights and above, with special permission required for Padawans (if only to keep Obi-Wan out of trouble with his friends’ masters).

There is some debate as to the inclusion of masterless Disciples and Journeymen in Obi-Wan’s Force Structures class, the decision ultimately being left in Obi-Wan’s hands as the instructor after the various councils and Master Fay as the HeriCorps Chairwoman failed to make a firm argument either way.

Ben is a little cautious entering the Battlemaster’s domain these days, apt to be cornered by Padawan Keeto the moment she realizes he’s within reach. He’s not certain if her enthusiasm for all things Mandalorian is specific or merely an enthusiasm for the study of all warrior classes, but for a slip of a twelve-year old, she can be surprisingly aggressive in pursuit of her interests.

Master Drallig certainly had his hands full with that one.

Ben navigates his way to the designated dojo unaccosted, to find Master Drallig, Master Yaddle, a Temple Guard Captain, and Master Plo awaiting him. He pauses on the threshold and lifts a brow.

“Speak of training, did we not?” Master Yaddle remarks. “Waiting on others, we are.” She invites him in.

“How are your padawans settling in?” Ben joins Master Koon and the Temple Guard Captain, who does them the courtesy of identifying herself as Captain Jude Rozess. Ben recalls her from her from the _Temple’s Bane_ situation.

“We are making progress.” Master Koon replies, voice warm with fondness for his new charges. “Slowly.” He tacks on. “Feral is the most willing to explore, but I fear it makes his elder brothers all the more reticent.”

“Culture shock.” Ben commiserates. “I suspected it wouldn’t be easy. Perhaps a more blunt approach? Framing integration into the Temple as a challenge to overcome may make their perspective more amenable.”

“Perhaps.” Plo nods.

Mace joins the room, accompanied by a red-eyed, blue skinned twi’lek Master with a curiously reflective and inscrutable Force presence, introduced as Master Anoon Bondera.

And last in the room comes Master Dooku, and a powerfully built, lavender-skinned lasat with green eyes, introduced as Master Jaro Tapal.

Master Drallig makes his way to the door with a stiff gait and seals the dojo. Instinctively, the assembled master turn to Master Yaddle.

“Aware, some of you are.” She starts. “And aware, some of you are not; the Master of Shadows I have been for the last thirty years.” She speaks in the slow, careful way that was her nature, sage hazel eyes meeting each of their gazes in turn.

Master Dooku’s expression pinches, and Master Tapal’s turns thoughtful at the new information.

“Risen, a threat to the Jedi has.” Yaddle informs them. “Chosen, each of you were, for your unique skills. Teach, you will, learn from each other, you are tasked to. Prepare to face this threat, we must. Prepare others, we must. But discreet, we must be. Much risk, there is, much at stake. Wary of the Jedi, the Senate becomes.”

“What threat, Master Yaddle?” Master Bondera inquires, lekku twitching idly, while Captain Rozess shifts uncomfortably at the implications of her pronouncement.

Ears dip slightly, eyes narrow. “The Sith.” She reveals, displeasure in her wrinkled brow, dissatisfaction in the flash of sharp teeth.

No one scoffs, no one huffs a laugh. Perhaps a year ago, they would have. Perhaps from a different source, they might doubt.

(Ben _knows_ they would doubt)

“Well poodoo.” Captain Rozess mutters.

Master Dooku gives her a disdainful look from his place in the room.

~*~

“Master Naasade, hold a moment.” Master Drallig requests, the session breaking up after introductions are made and future arrangements are planned out. Most of them have classes to teach and Padawan’s to train, and other duties to work around.

Ben was intrigued to work more with Master Bondera especially. The red-eyed twi’lek was a Tera Kasi fighter (and how he managed to find someone to teach him, Ben would dearly like to know). Tera Kasi was a hand to hand discipline, the methods developing in the practitioners extreme speed and anticipation, and the ability to close their minds to Sith and Jedi (towards both of which the developers of the style had been largely opposed). Practitioners studied the Force and Midichlorians even if they weren’t Force Sensitives, and were remarkable in combat even without the Force or technological assistance.

Captain Rozess had been a surprise as well, revealing training in the Mystral combat arts, including the use of vibro-blades, hand claws, and even Zenji needles, which had Master Drallig perking up.

“Do you have a set?” He’d inquired. Ben had been temped to ask himself, given their value, not to mention the sheer skill required to use them properly, and the fact that the Mystral Shadow Guard hoarded their signature crafting jealously.

“I might.” Captain Rozess had replied, having removed her face-plate at last, revealing a handsome blonde woman with the first few streaks of grey in her hair and an expressive palette of bruises across half her face. (“A training skirmish,” She’d remarked laughing at shocked and concerned looks, “don’t worry yourself over it.”) Temple Guards were certainly their own breed.

“How did you…?”

A bruised brow lifted haughtily. “I wasn’t always a Temple Guardian.” She’d replied.

Master Drallig had grunted in pique, and Ben had eyed Yaddle. The anonymity of Temple Guardians, as well as their insularity from the rest of the Order, made it a convenient transition posting for former and future Shadows.

Ben courteously remains while the rest of the Master’s make their way out, Mace muttering that this additional responsibility ought to be enough to stop everyone harping him about taking another Padawan, and Master Koon merely humming neutrally in response, which had the younger Councilor flushing.

“Six padawans.” Ben can just hear Master Tapal remark. “Are you finding that manageable?”

He misses Plo’s reply when Master Yaddle manages to prod her walking stick into the groove between his boot and greave, poking his ankle. Ben looks down at her, disgruntled. “May I be of service?” He inquires.

“Evaluate your cohorts, you will.” Yaddle informs him. “Your assessment, I wish to have.”

“Was I hallucinating when you placed this assembly in Mace’s hands?” Ben inquires drolly.

“A Shadow Fold, this is.” Yaddle replies thinly. “A Shadow, Master Windu has never been.”

Ben stares down at her pointedly. ‘ _Strictly speaking’_ , he projects, ‘ _neither was I’._

Yaddle’s ears perk up, her eyes narrow. “A General, he has never been either.” She adds, very quietly, and Ben stiffens. “War, this is. A General’s perspective, I require as well.”

Ben nods, though… “Why was Master Fay not brought in?” He inquires. Ben had lead Clone Troopers into battle. Fay had lead Jedi in the Army of Light. She had actually gone to open war with the Sith.

“Set aside her weapon, has Master Fay. Set aside that life, she did. Pick it back up, she will not. Can not.” Yaddle’s ears droop, sorrow for the older woman, and her grief.

Ben looks away. He had lost his war completely, his failure absolute.

Fay had won her war, but where the Order’s death had absolved its mistakes in Ben’s time (for did they not pay for them?), Fay had had to live with what her Order had done, what she had done, had had to reconcile herself with what they had done, become, and what they had lost, in victory. _For_ victory.

Ben had been dreaming only of sleep, after defeating Grievous. He’d wanted sleep, real food, to get his troops to safe harbor and then to figure out what was going on with his former padawan.

After that… who knows.

He’d gotten none of it.

He and Fay agreed on one thing, for their experience – Jedi weren’t meant to be soldiers. A Jedi’s purpose was Peace, to encourage it, foster it, to embody it. A soldier’s purpose was War, a soldier was defined by it, engaged in it. Both were mentalities and disciplines that shaped how an individual thought, how they acted, how they perceived the world.

And they were anathema to each other. To attempt to be both was to fail at truly being either.

And yet the Jedi’s sworn – and, he believed, necessary - enmity with the Sith persisted, and demanded that they made the attempt anyway.

“Right.” Ben sighs, understanding if a bit begrudging. “And are we going to explain that?”

“Perhaps, should the necessity arise.” Yaddle replies. “Access to their records, you have been granted. Await your report, I will.”

She dips her head, and Ben bows respectfully.

Master Drallig pushes away from the wall he’d been leaning against, and Ben notes the hint of sweat at his brow and the back of his neck, the slight pallor to his face. “Are you well, Master Drallig?”

Something behind the Battlemaster’s eyes flinches, and he shakes his head tiredly. “No, I’m not.” He replies gruffly. And Ben frowns, stepping away from the door and letting it seal. “That’s why I’ve asked you to hold back.”

The one hitch with wearing his vambraces about the Temple, Ben thinks, is the inability to fold his hands into his sleeves. Out of habit he instead clasps his wrist behind his back, and he knows it emphasizes his military bearing, which he’d rather went less noticed.

However, unlike most of his fellows, his military bearings seems to settle something in the Battlemaster. He finds it reassuring.

“I did not pull through _Temple’s Bane_ as well as my healer had first hoped.” Drallig admits grudgingly.

Ben doesn’t wince, though he is concerned. Late onset symptoms weren’t uncommon, but they were usually milder than the symptoms that had persisted without a lay period following recovery from _Temple’s Bane_.

“I’m not poorly enough to need removed from my duties…but that was an estimate made before I took on a padawan.” Drallig says tiredly, green gaze pinched and stern brow furrowed.

Something in Ben balks a little at that leading statement, and Drallig must see it in his face because he barks a scoffing laugh. “Relax, Master Naasade – I’m not asking you to take reigns. But I am requesting, formally, that you might take the position of Deputy Battlemaster. It hasn’t been filled- hasn’t been particularly necessary - for years now, but the way things are changing…” Drallig growls a little. “I won’t make you take on any of the younger classes – Force knows your skills would be wasted on the basics, but it would put a higher demand on you to be in Temple at regular.”

Ben hesitates. There are things he needs to do, to oversee, that may make such a commitment unwise… and he still plans to take Obi-Wan away for a time. Not yet, but… but Ben only has so much time left, before that becomes a necessity.

“Additionally – gods be willing – if you might agree to escort my Padawan on mission on occasion, I’d call it for a favor. She’s certainly enamored enough that she may actually _listen_ to you.” The blonde adds. “And the position comes with access to the Jedi Amory.” He adds. “And the vaults.”

Ben bites his tongue not to mention that he can – and has – broken into the vaults as he saw necessary. He’d added his own security measures to the flaws he was aware of, of course, but he’d left himself a path in, if he ever needed it again.

The armory, however, was a different story…

“I’m not sure how long I could maintain such a commitment, Master Drallig, though I am honored for the consideration.”

And, unfortunately, Ben couldn’t think of another proper candidate. Jedi tended to specialize once they’d found a form and style they liked, and the Battlemaster, by requirement, must be proficient in _all_ Temple-taught forms and weapons. With few exceptions – Vapaad, for example. Ben wasn’t proficient in or with _all_ , but he was in most, which put him far ahead of the crowd.

And he’d made a point of demonstrating that in public.

He can feels his ears color a little, and the Battlemaster eyes him.

“If I might have a day to consider?” Ben says eventually, and Drallig nods, looking relieved even without a definitive answer.

 _Well_ , Ben thinks, rubbing his jaw as he takes his leave. _It's always something_.


	12. Chapter 12

Howl and Talon both glance at each other when the door chime goes off. Savage doesn’t stop pacing. The younger Nightbrother has slowly been working himself up since Leska dragged Feral and Ravage with her to one of her introductory classes and none of them had been brave enough to argue with her.

Talon pointedly slouches deeper into the hammock, giving him a low-lidded ‘you’re the eldest’ look. Growling, Howl get up and tosses his padd at the maroon-skinned younger man. “You should be studying.” He mutters, heading for the door.

Talon offers him an innocent look. “I am studying. I’m studying culture.”

Howl sets his jaw and Talon sighs, closing the holodrama he’d been watching (he was obsessed) and pulls up the tutoring program they’d been assigned.

“We have to get better.” Howl growls. He had expected a challenge, going to learn from the Jedi. What he had not expected was to find himself in a place where he was no longer among the strongest or wisest, where, in fact, he found himself greatly outmatched at even the simplest of things, the things he’d once taken pride in.

And to his shame, he cannot even admit to Master Plo that he was afraid. Of what he was afraid of.

Talon hid his anxiety in distraction, and Savage bristled with it, hyper focused on his younger brother – Howl doesn’t blame him for that, baby brothers being precious things – and Ravage, well, Ravage was just anxious. But his anxiety faded easier. He was young enough – barely older than Leska – that he had not so far to climb.

Nor so far to have felt he had fallen, as Howl did.

Howl bears up to his full height as he answers the door, and feels himself deflate when he finds Wraith on the other side, having so prepared himself for another strange Jedi stopping by.

(At least it had not been Serra Keeto, Leska’s friend. She reminded him very much of the young witches, and that made him uncomfortable.)

“Wraith.” He greets, eyeing the Nightwalker warily. Wraith’s kind were neither Nightbrother nor Nightsister, neither of the Clan nor outside the Clan. They were born between and so walked between, serving often as messengers and couriers, and occasionally guides. By Clan Law they were untouchable, they could be challenged by no Nightbrother and claimed by no Nightsister, and Howl had often viewed them with a mixture of respect and pity.

Mismatched eyes look back steadily, the illuminating white of their tattoos adding to the eeriness of it, for all that Wraith was not more than a couple years older than Savage. “Howl.” Wraith replies. “Jedi do not take mates. They do not claim each other, nor outsiders. They do not invoke Challenges. With rare few exceptions.” The Nightwalker informs him.

“What?”

“You ought to follow your master around when he goes about the Temple. You would learn much.” The messenger continues, unbothered. “Such as that his age-mates are uneasy that he has taken on so many students. They do not think he can succeed, and you are not helping them not to think so.”

Howl bristles, and Wraith offers him a faint, disinterested smile – the same one the old Nightwalker had had too, that always felt somewhat unsettlingly placating, like you were being humored to receive it. Howl does not like receiving it from someone younger than him. “Clan be well.” The messenger states, and takes their leave.

Howl stomps back into the living area, earning Talon and Savage’s sharp attention.

“We are going into the Temple.” He barks. “Move.”

“Is this about the boys? And Leska?” Savage adds, tacking on the girl hesitantly, but with no older sisters for her in their little clan, surely it falls to them that they must look out for her?

“They – are fine.” Howl mutters. “ _We_ are not.”

Savage looks confused, and Talon frowns sharply, pulling himself off the hammock in one sinewy, fluid movement. “Sure, Chief.” He murmurs nonchalantly, tossing his padds aside.

Howl gives him a hard look, but doesn’t correct the title.

But he was _not_ Chief.

~*~

“Should I jump in and give you a _real_ challenge?” A tall devaronian girl crows, her padawan braid a trail of white and brown that makes him bitterly envious. He knows who she is – Sian Jeisel, Master Qui-Gon Jinn’s padawan.

“I resent that!”

“Maybe later.” Obi-Wan grins, and then yelps and ducks, twisting painfully and shoving with the Force. A blue blade just misses his throat, and a bright green blade crashes down, meeting deep jade with some serious physical force.

“Just keep distracting him for us, Sian!” Padawan Vos – the Dark Padawan – grouses at the sidelines, and the devaronian girl grins, showing her sharper eye-teeth, iridescent gaze alight as she roots for her friends in turns.

The display – Padawan Kenobi versus both Padawan Vos and Padawan Unduli – had drawn quite the crowd of spectators, including small clusters of younglings sitting politely along the boundary of the sparring ring, taking bets with…seeds? like they were professional gamblers.

Bruck doesn’t remember his own experience as a younglings as being nearly so entertaining, nor so… he doesn’t quite know how to describe it. Everything had been carefully structured, younglings stayed out of the way of the rest of the Temple, and most of their time at that age was spent on developing discipline and focusing on their studies, on making sure they were good enough-

He was good enough.

He should have been good enough.

He was better than most of his age-mates. Certainly better than _Oafy-Wan_.

But he hadn’t been chosen.

It wasn’t fair.

Bruck certainly hadn’t wanted Obi-Wan’s Master, seeing his childhood…. His former crechemate wobbling around, exhausted and pale-faced and stumbling through his classes worse than he ever had. But he’d wanted someone, and instead, a few months later, he’d been ushered off with _nothing_.

Just angry and scared and certain the Jedi were so wrong, certain they’d regret it.

And that everything would be different now.

Or – or maybe the same?

That he would still be better, that this time, he’d be _wanted_ , and he was powerful – more powerful than they could think-

He’d watched the broadcast, and when he’d heard ‘Kenobi Report’ he’d been furious. _I could have done that_ , he thought. _That should have been me_.

And he saw him on the holo during the _Temple’s Bane_ outbreak too, landing that ship in the square. _I could have done that. That should have been me._

He’d have been better at it – at all of it. Politics, piloting, swordsmanship. He always had been, after all.

And then the announcement – the invitation, to come ho- to come back.

_“You should take it.” Master Du Crion had told him, a slick smile on his handsome face. “Prove to the Jedi their folly – after all, with what I’ve shown you of real power…they’ll never know what hit them.”_

_“But you’ll keep training me, right?” Bruck had demanded._

_Sapphire blue eyes had sparkled, and that slick smile turned to a slightly distasteful sneer. “Never beg, Bruck, it’s revolting.”_

_He said that, but he was always pleased when Bruck begged for advice, for training, for more power._

_“Perhaps I will.” Master Du Crion had finally said, murmuring and consoling, his moods ever mercurial. “You might prove useful.”_

_Bruck had nodded, heart pounding in his chest, filled to the brim with determination matched by desperation, with a need to prove himself and be approved of._

And now he was here, and…

And it was all – different.

Bruck read the Kenobi Report – the _full_ report. It was mandatory. And it was awful. The public summary was one thing, but the details, the research, the small, seemingly innocuous adjustments and changes that had cascades down the generations, laid out in facts and figures and broken philosophies…

Part of him thought – _it’s their own stupid fault. The Jedi deserve it_.

And part of him thought that it _wasn’t_ his fault – the way he was raised, what happened to him.

He’d cried a little, a snarling mess of _shock_ - _fear-relief-helplessness-desperation-want_ clawing him up on the inside.

And for the first time, he’d thought of Obi-Wan, and he hadn’t been bitter at all. He still thinks it’s stupidly ridiculous that _Oafy-Wan_ \- who couldn’t keep up in their studies for the life of them, but was always so, so determined, drudging his way through it like he could make his brain put the pieces together through sheer blunt force - did all that research and worked all that out and actually made it make sense.

 _I couldn’t have done that_.

And Bruck, Bruck didn’t know what to feel about that.

When he’d crashed into him in the Dining Hall, that’s all he could think of – that stupid report.

 _So he did one impressive thing_. He’d thought later, angrily, with something curdling low in his gut. _I’m still better than he ever was. He’s got nothing on what Xanatos taught me_.

But seeing him next, inviting him to lunch, of all things, had been… Bruck had been with his classmates, and he’d been painfully aware that one bad word from Obi-Wan, the Temple’s _darling_ , could make things really uncomfortably for him.

And he’d looked… The armor, the faint scar on his face, the sears on his arm – He’d looked different. Not the way Bruck remembered him, back when Obi-Wan had been too-short and soft and clumsy, or worn-out and tense and sweaty, his padawan braid barely a stub.

Instead he’d seemed poised and powerful and dangerous.

 _So he has armor. His master’s Mandalorian. He probably needs it to protect him_.

Jedi didn't wear armor. They didn't need it.

But the invitation had thrown him off, and made him nervous, given the familiar, so easily teased out anger burning in blue-green-grey eyes. Obi-Wan _had_ always been too emotional, and too easy to rile. All Bruck used to have to do was set him off to prove that he was better.

Lunch had been….awkward, and weird, and… He hadn’t expected what Master Naasade had said, had brought up, about their rivalry, about Master Jinn and the way things had happened back then.

He _had_ expected the warning, about not returning to their childhood spats.

But the first question – about loneliness…

Bruck’s been thinking about it a lot. Because it’s weird, that he kind of _did_ miss Obi-Wan. Because they had never gotten along but… they’d been crechemates. Obi-Wan had just always sort of been there, until he wasn’t.

And that was _stupid_.

_“You’re angry, aren’t you?” Bruck hadn’t wanted to go with his father to meet his business acquaintances. He hadn’t expected anyone to talk to him – they talked at him, sometimes, trying to dig at his father, or they talked over him, but First Citizen Xanatos Du Crion, he was different. “I know how you feel. I was raised by the Jedi too.” Bruck knew that, by rumor, and he’d been wary. “It’s alright to be angry, you know. Anger is a tool. The Jedi just didn’t know how to teach you how to use it.”_

He hadn’t made any overtures yet, hadn’t made any promises, but Bruck could feel that the man had power, that first meeting. He practically ruled Telos, after all, and Bruck – had wanted it.

So he let is anger simmer behind every charming smile and respectful bow and courteous word, a warming, strengthening, succoring energy sizzling beneath his skin, and now he is standing in the shadow of a heavily tattooed zabrak, watching Obi-Wan fight, and he feels like it’s all for nothing.

Obi-Wan and Unduli seem to have the same ability to stand and move on the Force alone, and the redhead and Vos both step in and out of the shadows of pillars like something out of crecheling tales, and Bruck can’t tell if it’s illusion or actual teleportion but it doesn’t matter-

 _I can’t do that_. He thinks, watching with awe and shame, feeling it all rock through him, fists clenching, jaw grinding, a wailing sort of defeat hollowing out his center. _It’s not fair!_

Obi-Wan disarms Unduli, who yields at that point with grace, and Obi-Wan whirls with a seamless shift into jar’kai – but Vos isn’t there. Isn’t anywhere, and Obi-Wan freezes up, and the audience can’t tell why until there is a sort of shimmer, a ripple in air, and Vos is standing behind Obi-Wan, reaching around with his blade under the red-head’s jaw and a wicked grin on his dark face.

Obi-Wan yields, well caught. “I should have gone for a revers grip!” He mutters.

“It has it’s advantages.” Padawan Jeisel hoots, smug. “But that was amazing.”

Vos releases Obi-Wan, disengaging his blade, and the two turn and push off each other, flushed and exhilarated from the bout, and Obi-Wan disignites the two lightsabers in his hands and returns Padawan Unduli’s blade with a deep bow for having taken it. She folds one hand under his, and the other over his grip on the blade, holding it in place for a moment before releasing it and accepting her weapon – her life, trusted in his hands – back from him.

“First class on Force Structures starts the day after tomorrow.” Obi-Wan calls out, before the audience can start hounding. His gaze skims the crowd and notices Bruck, blue-green-grey shadowing a bit, his jubilation dimming. Bruck stares back, jaw clenched, but dips his chin in acknowledgement, both of them just shy of a glaring match. “Disciples and Journeyfolk welcome.” He tacks on, and looks away.

 _I want to learn_ , Bruck yearns, fiercely and jealously, even if he thinks it might kill him to have to learn from Obi-Wan. But...

Xanatos had taught him much, but he’d never shown him _anything_ like that.

“ _The Jedi are fools who don’t know how to use the gifts they’ve been given.” Du Crion had told him. “Don’t make their mistake, Bruck.” He didn’t like the way the other man said his name, and Du Crion knew it, laughed about it, even, when it made Bruck angry. “Don’t fear power –_ take _it.”_

Right now, Bruck doesn’t know if Xanatos was so right or so very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: not gonna lie, I feel like i'm playing plot-line roulette right now. Who decided their had to be _so much_ going on?  
> Oh wait....


	13. Chapter 13

“I must admit, I am not accustomed to hiding, Master Naasade.” Master Tapal remarks. “And I do not think I am well suited to such techniques.” The large purple lasat adds, a tad wryly.

Many Jedi shared his views, of course, and Ben thinks bitterly that if more of them had been better at hiding, perhaps they would have survived.

He does what he can to wall such thoughts away in their training sessions.

Jaro Tapal was a formidable Jedi Master, not only in stature, but in strict self-discipline, mental and physical. He possessed superb telekinetic Force abilities, patience (even by Jedi standards), and a reserved but genteel temperment which made him particularly successful in training padawans other masters might see as being too difficult. He’d raised three padawan to Knighthood already, and Ben had noted that the master took a few years after a knighting before training another, which showed a certain wisdom. Ben may push for more padawans to be taken, but he recognizes that it is vital that sometimes a master must give himself time to truly let one student go, to re-center themselves as an individual, before taking on another.

All told, his record was very favorable.

But Yaddle could tell that for herself. Ben was to find the faults that could not be found in ones record, faults they might not know to look for, until they’d already failed.

Ben strokes a his beard, contemplating best how to make his argument to his fellows without snapping at them. They take the idea of the Sith seriously, which he appreciates, but times such as this, he realizes, _painfully_ , that they do not quite grasp the reality of what it actually means to face the Sith.

His gaze lands on Master Koon, speaking quietly with Master Bondera, and Ben nods to himself, strides over, and places his hands on their shoulders.

Master Bondera’s red eyes hold enough skeptical confusion for both himself and Plo, but the rest of the room takes pause, and Ben carefully nudges his two charges in opposite directions, though it strains his focus a little. Hiding Master Bondera is difficult when the Twi’lek himself is closed off from Ben, but he manages, because he must manage.

Plo, on the other hand, has caught on, and casually moves to stand behind Master Tapal, drawing his lightsaber, testing Master Tapal just as much as he is testing Ben, as hiding an engaged lightsaber is not _easy_ , given – well, just given.

Master Tapal seems to sense something, with the threat just behind his back, but when Ben releases the shields obscuring them, the rest of the room is taken off guard.

Now, now Master Tapal looks more thoughtful. “There is more to this technique than I considered.” He bows politely, taking the correction in gentle humor.

Ben had thought that the ability to use this technique to protect others as well as himself might garner the lasat’s interest.

~*~

Ben returns to his quarters sweaty and bruised, having discovered that Captain Rozess is a _brutal_ teacher. (“These are just love-taps, sweetheart.” She’d smirked, and gestured for him to come at her again. And again. And again.) Ben hasn’t been thrashed like that in a while.

He finds a _crowd_ in his quarters, the air rich with the smell of desert teas and seasoned rice. Master Narec and Shaak Ti appear to be hiding out in his kitchen; Shmi, her boys, their friends, _all seven_ Dathomiri padawans, Obi-Wan, Sian, and Tsui have taken over his sitting area. The table has been pushed away from the couch beneath the window, the Ti/Skywalker quarters appear to have been raided for floor cushions, and Obi-Wan’s holocomm has been set up as a projector.

Over the holocomm, the padawans seemed to be engaging Padme Naberrie in an open debate on governmental jurisdiction.

 _Well_ , he thinks, _at least they were consulting an expert_. _Experts_ , he amends, as Padme turns a bit and another familiar face comes into view – Sabe, stepping in with an interjection.

“ – not always true; you have to understand that titles aren’t universal. A Princess of Theed, for example, isn’t the heir to the Throne – certainly a contender, but the role of office is more like that of a mayor in a traditional democracy.”

“But then why the monarchy titles?” Shmi persists, frustrated at her own confusion.

“Padme’s gonna be a Princess.” Anakin whispers, Jax nodding in agreement. “She looks like a princess.” Etain whispers back, amber-green eyes enraptured. Padme had that effect, Ben supposed, even at – what was she? Eleven? Twelve?)

“Because Naboo is a Democratic Monarchy.” Padme takes back over, her wild curls having been tamed into a crown of braids, all sleek and refined, changing her look drastically. “Our officials are elected by popular vote, but once elected, their authority is nearly absolute during their term, giving them real decisive power.”

“Can they not then just make their position permanent?” Padawan Ventress inquires.

“That would violate Naboo’s charter.” Padme explains, shaking her head. “And there are balances against that. A Nubian monarch has a protective guard whose responsibility is to assist, protect, and advise the King or Queen. However, should the King or Queen violate Naboo’s charter, it is also their responsibility to remove them from office. With force, if necessary.”

“And if they fail?” Shmi inquires, suspicious of those who hold absolute power, disbelieving that they would give it up so easily, and well aware of corruption, and the extent to which it could reach.

“If the cohort fails, it becomes the responsibility of the Council of Crowns – former monarchs and their cohorts. It’s not a perfect system – no system is, but we do the best we can.” Padme replies earnestly.

“No system is perfect.” Sabe reiterates, trying to drag the lesson back on course. “Which is why you have to understand how they function, so as to understand where the function of government falls short or outright fails-“

Ben steps into the kitchen, something lurching and fluttery in his chest about watching Shmi Skywalker and Padme Ami – Padme Naberrie interact.

“I see my padawan called in reinforcements.” Ben remarks to the two masters, gratefully accepting a cup of tea from Master Narec’s hand. “Which I’ll admit intrigues me, considering he all but memorized Master Bersar’s synopsis for his Senior Padawan levels.”

Master Narec takes a wrong sip of tea and coughs, looking up incredulously. “Photographic memory?”

“Not naturally, no. Stress and determination.” Ben replies gamely.

“Poor kid.” Narec mutters.

“Shmi is better suited to more conversational lessons than to memorization.” Shaak replies. “Obi-Wan happens to know someone always up for a debate.”

Ben nods, seeing the sense in that. “And the rest?” He lifts a brow, gesturing to the crowd.

“My padawan is not the only one currently in need of some advanced tutoring.” Shaak replies mildly, silver eyes gleaming. “Once the proposal was made…. Well, your padawan never does things by half.”

Ben feels his ears redden a little and takes a sip of his tea.

“What happened to you?”

“Sparring with a Temple Guard Captain.” Ben replies, reaching up to briefly touch the split in his lip, two fingers a little stiff, the knuckles swollen. He scratches at his beard a little, frowning as dried blood flakes under his fingernails. Rozess hadn’t broken him nose, thankfully, but she’d busted his lip when his attention had slipped for a moment. He hadn’t made that mistake twice.

Brown brows rise, and Shaak Ti hums low in her montrals, looking him over.

“Is that about the challenge?” Narec inquires. “Someone mentioned something about your padawan being up for foster? What’s that about?”

“Ben’s early training of his padawan raised…concerns.” Shaak Ti replies neutrally.

Narec’s mouth thins out. “A Challenge is more than just concern.” He eyes Ben.

“I pushed Obi-Wan to his limits, and frequently past them. But I did not do so to break him, or punish him.” He adds. “Or to prove anything, as some master’s believed.”

“He generally appeared as Ben appears now.” Shaak adds. “Which lead to obvious conclusions.”

“Abuse.” Narec nods, glancing into the sitting area, where Obi-Wan was perched on the arm of the couch, one foot unknowingly perched in a potted fern, the other slung over Sian’s shoulder, the girl sitting on a cushion and leaning against the couch below him. “But why _did_ you…” He trails off, putting the pieces together, and swallows. “Nevermind.” He mutters.

Shaak Ti meets Ben’s eye over Narec’s shoulder, a comprehension in her gaze, in her stillness, that tells him she understands perfectly.

The Sith. Ben did everything he did because of the Sith. One way or another.

Ben clears his throat and inquires after the food he can smell. They shuffle around in the kitchen a bit, and Ben ends up with a bowl of seasoned rice and sautéed grubs, which he despairs over a bit, though at least if he had to eat insects, these were cooked. He’ll never get over the experience of having witnessed Anakin’s tendency to go foraging on random planets, bringing who knew what kind of wriggly, crawly insects back to camp, and slurping them down raw with maniacal relish.

Ahsoka, as a carnivore, wasn’t culturally opposed to insects as a dietary supplement, but even she had found that appalling. Then again, Ahsoka could also hork down raw meat to no ill effect, save the horror of her troops, her master, and her master’s master.

Yeah, that had only been allowed to happen _once_.

~*~

Shmi is the only one who does not take to _distress_ when she starts becoming ill. _Marrat_ Shaak turns a pallor, Tholme makes stiff apologies for no reason at all, Quinlan hovers and seethes that there is nothing to be done about the nausea, Ani and Ji-Kest both turn quiet(smaller, somehow, in Ji-Kest’s case) and wide eyed and concerned, Obi-Wan incessantly makes ginger tea(which she does appreciate, even if she is not fond of ginger tea), and Ben hovers. He at least also has the courtesy to be brave enough to follow her into the fresher and help keep her hair out of the way. _Marrat_ would, but her nose is far more sensitive, and Shmi does not blame her the sensitivity, considering Shmi’s own increasingly volatile senses.

But it is still frustrating, and she knows soon they must tell the Council of her condition. Shmi can hide her shifting Force presence, but not so her other symptoms.

“No sparring.” Healer Ni Hiella tells her firmly. “And if you argue, I’ll restrict saber training completely.” The zeltron woman warns, violet gaze sharply unyielding.

“I am not _helpless_.” Shmi insists, leashing back anger.

“Who said it was about you?” Hiella retorts, with a brisk frankness Shmi usually appreciated. “Can you imagine the uproar if some poor knight knocks you over in a spar and later finds out you were pregnant? They’ll come crying to the Halls in a terrible tizzy about possibly having done you or your unborn harm, and then _I_ have to deal with them. I don’t have time for that.” The healer insists. “I have three new students to put through their paces.”

Shmi doesn’t entirely believe her, but she does not imagine any Jedi would react _well_ , in that scenario. Ni Hiella at least, has been a midwife before, and in the Outer Rim to boot. A practical understanding of midwivery and pregnancy throughout the Temple, however, was rather lacking.

As it was, even Knight Dahvo had been shy around her, politely having informed her the other day that her scent seemed to suggest….well, had she been to the healers recently?

She appreciates her friend’s discretion.

“I do have some other exercises for you to work on to help keep you in shape and that should ultimately make the birth easier. Now, I fully intend for you to have that child here, in the Halls, under complete supervision and with the best technology available, however, who knows. You might get stuck in a lift or something.” The Healer grumbles, and Shmi takes the datapad curiously.

Anakin had taken his time coming into the world, but he hadn’t been a difficult birth, by slave standards, and Shmi had never been left alone once her labor started, always with one or two other _Amavikka_ mothers staying at her side. Consensus had been, when he was born hale and healthy and her bleeding stopped quickly, that she’d had Ar-Amu’s own hand on her brow for that boy’s birth.

She had feared losing her life when he was born, but they had both pulled through.

She did not have those fears with this little one. Women did not die in childbirth in the Core.

“Thank you.” Shmi says.

Ni Hiella offers her a genuine smile, and Shmi feels herself relax. For all her blunt manners, her healer was also quite pleased to have a baby to look forward to, and happy for Shmi.

“See if the lozenges help with the nausea and heartburn, and try not to break anyone. We only mean well.” The Zeltron sends her off with.

“I will make no promises.” Shmi replies, when she steps out of the private room to find Ben making a nuisance of himself at the service desk, Jax sitting on his shoulders and Anakin propped on a hip.

“Everything is well?” He inquires, striding to meet her.

Shmi sighs, and Healer Ni Hiella slips out behind her. “Ben.” The healer draws out his name a bit. “Here for an assessment? I’d be more than happy to take care of it.”

“No, no, I’m quite fine.” Ben backpedals, and Shmi catches her healer’s eye, Ni Hiella’s gaze sparkling. Shmi tips her head, amused, and reaches forward to take Anakin from Ben’s hip.

“Oh, no, he’s-“ Shmi offers Ben a flat look as Anakin wraps his legs around her waist and clings to her shoulder.

“Hi mom.” He beams, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. Shmi turns her head and kisses his brow in turn. He only calls her Amu in private now, and it is both sweet and sad, but their people were a secretive people, and she knows that it is not yet the day where they may walk without fear. The Amavikka are not yet free, and until then, all they have must be held close, must be taken care of.

She reaches up to take Ji-Kest’s hand and presses a kiss to his palm as well, content as he appears to be to stay on Ben’s shoulders. His mind brushes hers, a tickle of starlight and mist, and she shares a smile with him.

She eyes Ben, who mumbles a sheepish apology, and allows him to escort her back out of the Halls. She takes a breath, letting the quiet peace of the Temple siffue her, and tries to broach what she believes might be a tricky topic for him. She knows so little of the man before he came into her life, but she suspects much.

“I appreciate your concern.” She tells her slowly. “But I am safe here. We,” She gestures her boys, and her future child. “ are as safe here as a person could possibly be.”

He looks confused, blue-grey eyes keenly lit and not entirely certain of the gravity of her meaning, faded cinnamon hair gleaming every time they pass an arch and light flashes over it. It’s strange, but he seems younger for the years between this moment and their meeting, than he was when they had actually first met.

Shmi looks away, and braves herself. “Was Beru your wife?” She asks, trying to be gentle. Beru was a Tatooine flower, the name uncommon in the Core.

He startles, and Jax clings to his shoulders before abruptly scrambling down, sliding off Ben’s back and reaching for Anakin, pulling him down to. Shmi lets him down. Anakin hisses something at Jax, and then looks up between his mother and Ben, a pinched look of concentration on his face.

After a moment, he chews his lip and slumps a little. “Okay.” He tells Jax, and the two run off.

Ben watches them go, looking disgruntled. When they disappear around the corner with one last wave, he looks back to Shmi. “Beru wasn’t…mine.” He shakes his head.

Shmi studies him calmly. Not his, but Beru meant something to him. You don’t name children after people you did not care for.

“And Luke?” Shmi asks. Luke could be a name from anywhere in the galaxy, but it held special meaning on Tatooine, and Tatooine was where their paths had crossed.

Ben huffs, a sad, strangled sort of sound. “Luke wasn’t mine either.” He says, startled and hurt by the sudden topic. He takes a breath, staring back into her eyes, and something in him seems to slump, surrender. “Luke was… he was my padawan’s son. My former padawan’s…” His voice fades away helplessly. “His father didn’t survive.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t-“ Ben utters sharply. “You have –“ He grinds down on his jaw and shakes his head, almost angry at her for the apology. “It was my fault.”

Shmi reaches out and takes his hand. His fingers clench tightly, but Shmi doesn’t wince. Her hands are hardly soft. “You loved your padawan.” She tells him, because it’s the most obvious thing in the world, that he had loved his first student as fiercely as she loves her own sons, as fiercely as he loves Obi-Wan. For a man so otherwise inscrutable, Ben seemed to her a man more lead by his heart than his head.

“It wasn’t enough.” He confesses. “I never told him. I just thought he – knew.”

“If he knew anything of you, he did.” Shmi could not imagine Ben’s actions leaving much doubt, as decisive and even somewhat reckless as he was. But perhaps he’d been a different man, before she knew him.

Ben licks his lips, not looking at her anymore, and shakes his head. “I don’t think, by the end, that either of us knew each other very well at all.”

Shmi wishes she could forgive him, but she had no power to absolve a man in someone elses place. “I’m sorry for it, then.” She murmurs. _For you_.

“So am I.” He replies.

Shmi had meant to approach the subject of the fact that she cannot take the place of those in his past, and he need not treat her like glass, but for now, it feels that in this moment, there is no more she can say. It would be too unkind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Me, reading the chapter i just wrote, appalled: why would you _do_ that?


	14. Chapter 14

A low, angry whine, followed by clattering datapads, the slippery ripping sound of flimiplast, and then an exaggerated groan precede his padawan stalking out of her room, muttering beneath her breath.

“You know,” Qui-Gon remarks blandly. “ green tea has both calming and sharpening effects on the mind.”

“I am fine just the way I am.” Sian replies with a huff, nose crinkling, heading into the kitchen anyways.

Qui-Gon watches her putter for a minute, digging through the cooling unit. “Are you having a problem with your story?” He inquires, having noted that his padawan started writing fiction in her free time and tacitly deciding, given her dramatic flare in mission reports, that that was as much about it as he wanted to know. Still, it’s polite to ask after her interests.

“No – well, yes, but it’s fine. I’ll figure it out.” She replies, her reply half swallowed by the cooling unit. Qui-Gon clears his throat a little, and she withdraws, turning around to face him. “It’s the stupid records I can’t parse.” She complains, iridescent blue eyes flashing.

“Records?” Qui-Gon inquires, not aware that she had any research report due.

“The architectural records for the Senate.” She replies short-temperedly, and Qui-Gon gives her a look. Her expression puckers, and she takes a calming breath, focusing herself, letting her anger go in the Force.

“Why are you looking at architectural records for the Senate?”

She narrows her eyes, her calm wavering. “I’m attempting to see if I can find a pattern in the repairs and renovations regarding the implementation of the force-numbing components.”

Qui-Gon was fairly certain there was a dedicated taskforce of archivists working on that very same problem, if not Shadows, but he nods nonetheless. If his padawan wanted a crack at it – let her try. “And..?” He inquires.

She slumps. “And I don’t think there is, or I don’t understand enough to find it.” She grumbles. “It’s not all approved by the same parties or committees, the funding changes obnoxiously, plans get approved, funding gets allocated, contractors are hired and fired and plans drawn and redrawn and thrown out and started over and sometimes entire administrations come and go before the work even actually _starts_. I’ve gone back over _seven hundred years_ of proposals and architects, imports and contractors, Master, and if there’s a thread to find, I just….can’t.”

She shakes her head, and Qui-Gon feels a bit…shamed to realize he hadn’t paid attention enough to see his padawan pouring such an extensive and thorough amount of time, effort, and zeal into the project.

“I don’t know if I just need to keep digging, or… give up.” She says, subdued.

Ah. Finally, something Qui-Gon can help with. He considers the problem for a moment, and then nods to himself.

“I would say, padawan, to give everything you’ve researched to someone else, see if they might not find a different approach with fresh vision, and focus your own efforts elsewhere.” He says. “ Don’t keep burning your thrusters when you know they won’t get you off the ground.”

“It doesn’t feel….right, to just give up.” She complains, wilting against the countertop.

Qui-Gon huffs. “It isn’t giving up. It’s knowing what you can and cannot do, padawan, and how to best allocate your efforts. Failure here, accepting failure here, may allow you to gain victory elsewhere. But only if you move on.”

She offers him a quirked edge of a smile, expression softening a bit as she understands, but her look, he feels, lasts too long. “Thank you, master. That’s good advice.” She shakes her head a little. “I’ll talk to Madame Nu. She’ll know who to give my research to. I just… I really thought I could do it.”

Qui-Gon hums a bit, empathetic of her feelings, but hoping she doesn’t swell in them too deeply. If she had done as much as she said…her efforts were commendable, and that in itself was worthy. “There are butter cookies in the top left cupboard.” He offers placatingly, gesturing, and enjoys the way her expression brightens, though some hurt and hesitance still lingers in her frame.

~*~

“Are we really about to play push-pull?” A Knight asks incredulously, eyeing the game balls set up in the training dojo. “We already know how to play push-pull!”

“Excellent.” Obi-Wan replies with a grin. “That should make the first step easier.” He lies, blatantly and with pleasure, having anticipated exactly that reaction. “Take a ball, please.”

He stops one suspiciously small rhodian as they try and slip by, and the initiate admits they’re only nine.

“Ten or equivalent is the rule.” Obi-Wan says, sending them off.

“Why _is_ that the rule?” Someone asks. Obi-Wan stares flatly back at them.

“Because they’re _younglings under ten_?” He replies, his tone clearly implying that the reason should be obvious, but he adds, just in case; “No crechemaster would forgive me for teaching their Initiates to run on air and walk on the ceiling.”

That had been his master’s reasoning, at least. Obi-Wan could see the point.

“Could you walk to space?” A young Disciple asks idly.

“Why would you _do_ that?” Another snaps back.

“I never said I’d go without a space suit.” They mutter back, fur ruffling.

“In theory,” Obi-Wan answers warily. “Yes. But keep in mind that if your grasp of the technique is not _flawless_ , that’s a long way to fall, and re-entry is _hot_ , space suit or no space suit.”

“Can we learn that thing you did? Did you really teleport?”

Obi-Wan can feel his neck heat a little, but he was prepared for this too. “That technique has been restricted. It will only be taught as private instruction for Knights and Masters, and Padawan’s only with their master’s permission.”

“What about Disciples?” Bruck asks sharply. “And Journeymen?” He adds.

Obi-Wan takes a breath. “With Master Fay’s permission.” That had been what he and Master Fay finally decided, given that she had all the evaluative scores for Force competency. “But I’m not teaching anyone to Shadow-Walk who hasn’t already mastered Force Structuring. It’s not a particularly safe technique to learn.”

“How’d you learn it?”

Obi-Wan looks back blandly. “From a witch.” He says, and checked the chronometer above the door. “Now, are we ready to start? Everyone has a hoverball? Let’s sit.”

There’s shuffling, and grumbling, as everyone lowers themselves to the floor, some kneeling, some criss-cross, a few squatting, if that was more natural to their species. Or coiled up, as was the case with one thisspissian Journeywoman.

“So, does everyone here know how to play push-pull?” He inquires.

“No?” Obi-Wan glances over, and blinks to notice Talon sitting in one corner of the dojo, frowning at the question. Someone snickers at the Zabrak, but if he flushes, his tattooed, maroon skin hides it.

“Hm.” Obi-Wan hadn’t really thought of that. “Then I’m afraid this lesson isn’t really set up for you.”

“I have to leave?” Talon scowls sharply, and the rhodian Initiate nearest him leans away a little.

“I’ll come see you later and we can work something out.” Obi-Wan replies. “But this lesson right now would probably be a waste of your time.”

The dathomiri growls, pushing back to his feet. “By the goddess…” He mutters, leaving.

“Anyone else?” Obi-Wan asks, but no one else speaks up. “Alright. Just to prove a point, everyone lift your hoverball for me.” He instructs, and watches as the toys come alight, sensors reacting to the motion as they rose up. “Now, push it forward – without hitting anyone! – and pull it back to you.”

The class grumbles, and some of the younger ones’ giggles. One Master does this with an absolutely serene smile on his aged face. Simple pleasures, Obi-Wan supposes. Or he was laughing at all the surly, grumbling Knights swallowing their pride. Hard to tell.

“Alright, now, who can tell me why that works?” He opens.

“It just does.” One knight blurts out.

Obi-Wan lifts a brow and smiles patiently. “Because you _believe_ it does.” He starts. “Lesson one: Within the Force, all things _are_ possible – so long as you believe they are.”

Uncertain nodding.

“So why does push-pull work?” He asks again, scanning the class.

“Because we believe it works? Will work?” Bruck replies skeptically, chin lifted, brow scrunched faintly.

Obi-Wan nods in affirmation. “Exactly. And Force Structuring is the same. It works – if you believe it works.” He pauses, letting that sink in a little. “So, why do you believe push-pull works?”

~*~

Obi-Wan returns feeling like his first lesson went rather well, all told, and like his final warning not to attempt structuring yet would go largely ignored. No one had displayed the necessary grasp of concept to make practical progress towards anything but getting themselves hurt yet, and he has a sour feeling that several of the Knights aren’t going to take his word for it, will attempt the technique improperly, and wind up in the Halls.

He needs to meditate – focus on details he might not have noticed in the moment, allow himself to immerse the class in his mind, so he could do better next time. Without thinking about it, he reaches up to his shelf, slings his jar of sand into his hands, and chucks it to the floor.

“Fuck!” Obi-Wan yelps, realizing immediately that that was his jar of sand – not his broken urn for practicing Nightsister Healing, which he treated much without care, given its purpose. He stares at the mess in dismay, sand scattered out like sun rays, glass glinting merrily in sharp shards.

“Obi-Wan?” A shrill call.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan calls back, confused.

His door swicks open, the six year old trotting through and Obi-Wan throws up a hand, giving him a light push with the Force to make him halt. “Don’t come in here, I’ve glass all over the floor.”

“Woah.” Anakin breathes out, and then squats down. Obi-Wan leans a little, trying to peer out in the living room, but he doesn’t see Jax, doesn’t feel him, either. It’s odd, seeing one without the other these days. The boys have free access to their quarters, of course, but Obi-Wan hadn't been aware Anakin intended to come over today.

“He’s got a telepath’s class.” Anakin says, looking up like he’d plucked the thought right out of Obi-Wan’s head – or Obi-Wan had been projecting. Anakin was no telepath, but his perception was still far wider than the average Jedi, even if he didn’t always understand what he was perceiving.

“Oh.” Obi-Wan remarks, and looks back down at his mess, and feels his ears burn in embarrassment.

“It’s like a little desert.” Anakin says brightly, scrunching down even further until he was laying on his stomach over the threshold. “See?”

Dubious, but ever inclined to humor the youngling, Obi-Wan steps back carefully and lowers himself, making sure he doesn’t put his hands down on any stray shards.

The splayed pattern of grains he could see from above loses shape, and with his eyeline on the floor, he could tell what Anakin meant, a small square meter of floor turning into its own horizon of sand, with sharp spires of white-lit glass, and two blazing blue eyes on the other side. A little world-scape suspended between him and Anakin. Anakin grins at him.

“I see it.” Obi-Wan says softly. “But I still have to clean it up.”

“Ugh.”


	15. Chapter 15

Ben accepts the Deputy Battlemaster role as an interim position, at least until Master Drallig can find or train a replacement, though the Battlemaster grouses him up one side and down the other about his reluctance to commit. Ben just smiles in vague affability until Drallig shakes his head, muttering about Shadows.

Ben explores the Temple Armory with due reverence. Much of it is training tools, practice sabers, dummies and droids and the like, but also in there is an array of weapons designed to be used by Force-Sensitives, or against them. And there is a wall of relics, from old lightsaber designs to carefully preserved Force Swords - steel imbued with the Force of its wielder until it glowed with it; Old armor from the Army of Light, hand-carved face-plates for Temple Guards recovered from the oldest known sites of the Jedi, and Holocrons, detailing the development of the seven Forms, fighting styles from across the galaxy and the ages, philosophies of the discipline and spirituality of each technique, most of them from former Battlemasters.

And, in an unbreakable case in a sealed and largely untouched room at the very back of the armory: a pair of sabers and a broken mask collected from a fallen Sith Lord of Old, the crystals in the sabers crying out, the mask radiating violent pain and malice even sixteen hundred years later.

A reminder.

There is something too still in the air, almost stale, around it, the darkness allowed to stagnate here, undisturbed. Ben wonders if Drallig has even been in this room since he first took his position as Battlemaster. Ben taps the spine of the book in his pocket, eyeing the items laid on velvet warily. The pitch of the crystals screaming itches at the base of his skull, and a shiver runs down his spine.

Disquieted, he leaves the room and seals it, but even once outside he feels…sticky, like he’s walked through the gossamer web of some weaving insect, and he resists the urge to scratch at his skin.

Those crystals, he thinks, should not have been left like that.

~*~

Obi-Wan leaves an early morning session with the Padawan Sabacc League feeling absolutely certain that his old crechemate Reeft, in spite of his so seemingly innocent, wrinkly face, had totally cheated – he just can’t figure out _how_.

Still, the game had gotten him out of the haze he’d woken up with, having woken up from half-dreams about his Organic Chemistry homework which also for some reason included Bant singing? He wasn’t sure, but he felt much more awake now, and far less confused.

He’s thinking about seeing what’s left of breakfast in the Dining Hall and maybe going over his Organic Chemistry notes, only having two classes today, and not until the afternoon, but he finds himself turning away from the way out and instead walking towards a large fountain.

Jax is sitting on the stone ledge, feet dangling in the water, and he looks very small and lonely.

“Jax?” Obi-Wan calls out, walking up behind him. He doesn’t know where his friends are, but there aren’t many younglings out in the gardens this morning, and if Anakin isn’t around, he’s probably having one of his philosophy lessons with Master Fay. Obi-Wan doesn’t know quite what to think of those lessons, but he is aware than Anakin has got a lot of power for a little boy, and that that kind of intense connection to the Force makes his experience different. If Fay thinks he needs extra guidance, he has no input on the Master’s prerogative.

But he might be just a teeny, tiny, little bit jealous about it. Nothing is promised, but he and Anakin have a sort of understanding. They both assumed Obi-Wan would be the boys master some day. It just seemed…right.

But Anakin is a genius, and a powerhouse, and there will be no shortage of potential masters for that kind of promised talent. And Obi-Wan is just… Obi-Wan. He’ll be lucky if he’s been Knighted by the time Anakin’s old enough to be a Padawan, and it would be selfish to ask Anakin – or expect him – to refuse other masters and wait on him. Obi-Wan's not even certain he'll be capable of teaching Anakin what he'll need to know. Perhaps a wiser, more experienced master _would_ be better.

Jax looks up, and Obi-Wan draws himself down onto the ledge beside the boy, sitting criss-cross to avoid dropping his own feet in the water. “Are you alright?” Obi-Wan asks.

Jax never really answers him, but Obi-Wan doesn’t take that as a reason not to talk to him. Obi-Wan holds up his hands, shaping his fingers. “This is ‘yes’.” He shows the hand-sign his master taught him, the one he was never actually given a culture of origin for. “This is ‘no’. And this one is ‘I don’t know.’”

It’s more complicated than a nod or a head shake or a shrug, but Obi-Wan is getting concerned that Jax doesn’t really try to communicate at all – he knows Shmi is too, and Master Ti – so they’re trying to encourage him a little, to communicate somehow, even if it isn’t through talking. The little emotional nudges and faint impressions he projects sometimes aren’t enough when Anakin isn’t around to fill in, and unlike most natural telepaths, the little psychic doesn’t seemed inclined to chatter away in their heads either.

They’d asked Anakin once, and Anakin had just said that Jax won’t talk because talking is bad. He refused to clarify on that, on why Jax thinks that.

Jax smiles patiently, which makes Obi-Wan feel silly, but he isn’t going to stop trying, because he _cares_ , and he thinks that loudly enough that Jax _has_ to pick up on it.

Jax’s smile fades, and his expressions screws up, and he crawls into Obi-Wan’s lap, burrowing into his side. Obi-Wan is utterly bewildered, but he wraps his arms around the boy and holds him tight regardless.

‘ _It’s okay. It’s okay_.’ Thanks to Quinlan, Obi-Wan has quite a bit of experience in the matter of thinking happy thoughts to soothe someone else, and he fills himself with light, uncomplicated emotions, turning his mind into a refuge as best he can. Safe. Obi-Wan thinks, uncertain why Jax was upset, was feeling so _lonely-scared-wanting_ , and wishing he could do more, but he doesn’t know what else _to_ do. So he thinks; ‘ _Safe. Safe. Safe. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe_.’

Maybe he should take Jax to Shmi, but Shmi had a seminar to attend this morning-

Drowning - white noise, scratching, screaming, laughingvoicesoverlappingvoicesrootsgrowingswallowingsunlightleavesstretchingflashesinthewaterlightonlightonlightonangryredbrownblacksadcryingsadnoembarrassednoboredno – oil and fire, flowers withering, blooming, blood soaking the ground – jungle leaves and jungle roots, and darkness, running, running – two strangers, huddled in the dark, cloth covering their faces thinking finally, finally, weapons in their hands and an outcry in their hearts - frost covering the walls, turning into snow, turning into a field of white, a blinding blue sunrise in a pale lavender sky – a green sky – a red sky – snow turning to sand, to ash, to sheeting rain - Obi-Wan, standing in front of himself – whispers, rotting bones, traffic, buzzing lights, a tapping sound, tap-ta-tap-ta-tap-tap-tap – it _hurt_. Too loud, too much, too _everything_.

“Oh, Jax.” Obi-Wan murmurs sorrily, his head reeling, his stomach doing flips. “That’s an awful headache.” He moves his hands, covering Jax’s ears. “Close your eyes for me, huh?” Jax sniffles, whimpering into his shirt, eyes screwed tight. “There we go. Can you hear me?” ‘ _Can you hear me? Just me. Listen to me. Can you hear my heartbeat?_ ’

He shuffles them a bit, putting Jax’s ear right over his heart and drawing his hand away, cradling the boy as tightly as he can manage, ignoring wet feet and damp knees. ‘ _Listen. Find my heartbeat, huh? Just be with me. Center on me_.’

It’s not easy, nor so simple as Obi-Wan wishes it could be, Jax’s mind a stressed, skittish thing, which does his senses no help. Unfortunately, there isn’t much a psychic can do about what they see and hear and feel through the Force. Like empaths and seers and telepaths, they can hone their focus, but they can’t make it stop.

Obi-Wan pauses, an idea occurring to him. Scooping Jax better into his arms, he stands and goes to find Sian.

~*~

Quinlan probably shouldn’t use Shadow-Walking as often as he does, but it’s just…convenient. He’s still a little miffed that Obi-Wan tricked him into learning it. He’d grabbed Quinlan’s hand, insisting that he’d just ‘get a feel for it’ if they did it together enough times, and gone back and forth, back and forth, from one alcove to another on the other end of the same corridor more than a hundred times until Quinlan was absolutely, outrageously _bored_ of it and Obi-Wan had busted up laughing.

Turns out, it had been Quinlan Shadow-Walking _him_ the last half dozen times, his mind and body simply so certain it would happen that it just…happened.

“You are a monster.” Quinlan had told him flatly, shoving him over. Obi-Wan had just smirked, dusted off his hands, and went on his merry way.

The room Quinlan’s been directed to this time is round, the wall a warm burnished copper and the ceiling a deep, velvet blue. They switch between the two rooms depending on how much stress might be involved in their sessions. They don’t want to disrupt the aquariums. Healer Weyl-Va is already waiting for him, and Quinlan rolls his shoulders as the door seals and the shielding engages. The only furnishings on the polished floor are two cushions, and Quinlan takes the free one.

Healer Weyl-Va’s methods are certainly innovative, and Quinlan isn’t sure where he draws the line between making things up as he goes and knowing exactly what he’s doing.

“How has today gone so far?” Healer Weyl-Va inquires.

“Master Sinube wants me to teach a junior class on research methods.” Quinlan answers, reaching up to twist the JudiCorps journeyman bead in his hair. His educational requirements for Knighthood are met, but it’s the rest of it that the Council won’t pass him on. “Which would keep myself and Master Tholme in temple for awhile, but I’m not sure anyone wants to learn from _me_.”

“Is it important that you and your master remain in Temple for awhile?” Healer Weyl-Va inquires softly, intrigued by that remark. Quinlan flushes a little, rubbing his palms over his knees.

“We’re completely confidential, right? I mean, I know you report my progress to the Council of Reconciliation, but…”

“The content of our sessions is sacrosanct barring extreme circumstance.” Weyl-Va replies, in his thrumming voice.

“Heh. I’m not exactly sure what _you’d_ consider extreme but… someone may or may not be pregnant with Tholme’s kid?”

Orange eyes blink, and then blink again, his expression otherwise completely placid.

“Well. Would you like to discuss that?”

“Not really.” Quinlan shrugs. “I’m happy that there’s going to be a baby. The rest is my masters issue.”

“Alright then.” Healer Weyl-Va nods, and just as simple as that, lets the matter go. “Then would you like to elaborate on the subject of teaching? Do you feel confident in your abilities to teach?”

“Yeah.” Quinlan nods. “I could teach Research Methods in my sleep. It’s everyone else’s confidence that I’m not so sure of.”

The Voss hums, a low sound Quinlan can almost feel in his chest. “Which do you believe matters more?” Weyl-Va inquires. “Their confidence or yours?”

Quinlan taps his fingers, thinking it over. “Theirs.” He finally decides.

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t matter if I trust myself to teach them if they don’t trust me. It would undermine their learning.” Quinlan replies.

His healer nods thoughtfully. “A reasonable argument; so let me give you a reasonable counter – how can they learn to trust in your teaching ability if you will not teach them?”

“If I got better-“

A sigh, and Quinlan snaps his jaw shut. Orange eyes narrow slightly, and focus sharply on him.

“You are under no obligation to be what others expect or want you to be. Your experience is _different_ than theirs, but it is not _wrong_ to be as you are. You aren’t _worse_ or _less_ than anyone else. You aren’t hurting anyone.”

“I set a poor example.” Quinlan drawls, shifting uncomfortably.

“I disagree.” Healer Weyl-Va counters smoothly. “You Fell. You gave into the Dark Side. And yet here you are, still trying to do the best you can do. There are those who could not do that, in your situation. There are those who could do and have done far worse. Tell me, what other example can you name of a Jedi who lost their way and still kept trying to come home?”

“It’s not like that, what happened to me was an _accident_. I didn’t really choose-“ Quinlan shakes his head, thinking his healer makes it out to sound so much more….heroic than it is. It’s not some great parable – he’s just…stumbling around trying to hold together the life he’d been building.

“It doesn’t matter, Quinlan, how it happened. It happened.” Healer Weyl-Va insists with gentle firmness. “And what you did – are doing - after that is all that matters.”

“And what am I doing, doc?” Quinlan snaps exasperatedly, clenching his fists over his knees.

“Proving that there is hope.” Weyl-Va replies simply, still holding his gaze level and calm.


	16. Chapter 16

A holorecorded lecture on Fluid Dynamics plays in the background while Shmi works her carving picks, engraving chips of japoor with Amavikkan symbols for life, wisdom, purpose, freedom, peace, and luck, a mix of Jedi and Amavikkan values. Symbols were important to the Amavikka, as Amatakka had no written form.

Obi-Wan and Sian Jeisel had come up with the idea of crafting Ji-Kest a bead necklace, made from one of the Force-Numbing game tiles Sian had, the girl considering the game piece a sacrifice for a worthy cause. They had tested the amount of beads and the spacing on themselves, trying a find a balance of muffling their senses without cutting off the Force too much, and at last come up with a loop of just eleven small beads, loose enough to slip easily on and off the wearer.

Ben had discovered their project and contributed orange and yellow glass beads to the cause, his padawan complaining that he needed to purge that atmospherics in their quarters or else melt glass somewhere else. The yellow beads always felt soothing to hold, a quiet-evening sort of calm, and the orange beads accompanied by a sense of refreshed awareness, like waking up from a good sleep. Shmi half wonders how Ben managed those two sensations well enough to imbue them in glass, but she thinks it would be rude to ask. Together, they mull the slightly staticky feel of the beads muffling effect into a vague sense of being encloistered, as if wrapped in a blanket.

Shmi was just adding one final touch.

When Obi-Wan had come to her with the idea, Jax passed out on his shoulder, eyes smudged underneath for tears and tense exhaustion, Shmi had cried, both for her sons distress and for Obi-Wans kindness. Shortly thereafter, Obi-Wan had been crying too, trying to make tea and hide the fact that he was in tears, and it wasn’t until Shaak Ti came home, took one look around, said ‘oh no’ that they realized why.

Pregnancy hormones.

Pregnancy hormones, coupled with the Force.

Shmi had been…embarrassed, to say the least, and apologized, and Obi-Wan had been sniffling, insisting it wasn’t her fault, and Shaak had commented that it was certainly going to be an interesting few months in the temple, and then they’d all been laughing slightly hysterically until Shmi managed to calm herself down.

Shmi doesn’t recall having had such…influence, during her pregnancy with Anakin, nor the one she lost, but she had been in a different position then, and in truth, she doesn’t remember feeling much at the time but a persistent, numbing sort of fear, doing her best to hide, to garner no attention and no wrath. But she does remember the months being so much quieter than usual, all of Gardulla’s slaves meek and careful, slipping about as if they weren’t there at all. There had been very, very few accidents or mistakes made by anyone, and very few punishments.

She’d prayed almost every minute of every day, and blessed the goddess nightly.

But had that not been mere fortunate luck, had that been because of her?

 _There is more to me than even I know_ , Shmi thinks, pressing her pick into the groove of a curve, carving it deeper, a rich sense of promise in her breast. She hopes, when Ji-Kest wears this, that he will feel her love for him, and know he is not alone.

~*~

“We don’t speak of it much, do we?” Healer Kala inquires thoughtfully, curled up in her chair, a cup of tea perched carefully on the arm of it. They had spent most of the session discussing Shmi Skywalker, whom Ben had revealed he had known _of_ , in his prior timeline.

Healer Kala tries to get him to understand – more, to accept – that Shmi’s fate then had not been his fault. He’d been a young man in a difficult position, with a young child in his care who needed a lot of support and attention, a threat looming over his head, and with no one he felt safe enough to turn to for help.

She agrees that he should most definitely, at the time, had therapy.

He admits to Qui-Gon’s death, to taking Anakin Skywalker as a Padawan. He says nothing of the prophecy regarding the boy. She knows now that Anakin was his first padawan. She knows his first padawan Fell, but what he did in Falling, Ben hasn’t admitted. _Can’t_ admit to, still himself choked with the horror of it, still half in denial. _Darth Vader was not Anakin Skywalker_ , his mind shrieks. So he doesn’t tell her. That’s what his holocron is for. Not that he manages to say much of Anakin to his holocron either.

She also agrees that, at the time, his padawan should have had therapy.

So his inability to have saved Shmi Skywalker, she claims, was not his fault.

“He all but begged me to listen, and I didn’t.” Ben replies. “Instead, I quoted my master at him.” As if Qui-Gon’s advice had done Ben’s anxieties any favors at the same age. The Living Force and the Unifying Force were not two disciplines whose philosophies got along _well_. “We could have saved her.”

To put it mildly, Healer Kala’s arguent did not make much headway, and she had instead moved past it, to Shmi’s present, and her pregnancy, and Ben’s mindset on that.

“We don’t speak of what?” Ben inquires, a question for a question.

“Your future.”

Ben’s brow pinches. “I’m certain that’s all we speak of.” Ben replies.

Her whiskers twitch and shining dark eyes almost flicker with annoyance. Ben’s feels his brow twitch at having elicited a personal reaction from the typically unflappable healer.

“No, we speak of your past. Of time unwritten. I mean your future as it exists moving forward from the here and now.” The camaasi replies.

Ben shifts in his chair, one ankle propped on his opposite knee, pressed back against his own chair, hands folded over the arms, not nearly as relaxed as he appears. In Bens mind, his future does not move forward, it curves back into a circle, and he is ever moving headlong into the past, into events not yet averted, into enemies not yet rooted out, not yet destroyed, into a war he isn’t sure he can stop.

Her eyes narrow, and she sighs a little, as if sensing his thoughts. “Do you see a future for yourself, beyond… I suppose beyond the Sith?” She asks.

Ben shouldn’t be angry at the question, but he is. She says it so mildly, as if the Sith are some simple thing to overcome, as if their defeat is a forgone conclusion when Ben knows, _knows_ , they have already failed against them once.

“The Sith are more than enough to be focused on.” He replies tightly.

Healer Kala watches him, and waits. Ben forces his jaw to relax, forces himself to breath calmly, and sags a little. “I suppose I don’t.” He replies.

“Well,” She replies patiently. “I think, in light of your friends new child, that perhaps you should consider it. I am fully aware of the irony of saying this to you, Ben, but time does move on, even when you don’t expect it to. Do me a favor, and consider the chance that you might win. Think about a future beyond that, and what you want out of it. Consider that your homework.”

~*~

Sian tightens the buckles on her new bracers - an expensive gift from her grandmaster and his padawan – made of cortoisis alloy, painted the same sturdy pink and her lightsaber and her tabbards, with black buckle adjustments.

“Do I have these on right?” She asks Obi-Wan, displaying her arms.

“Yes, but it looks like you don’t have a sleeve under them. You should get some, if you aren’t going to wear longer-sleeved shirts. Tightening those right to your skin is going to chafe.”

“There’s padding.” Sian points out.

“That’s to prevent the edges from cutting you, not rubbing your skin raw.” Obi-Wan points out. “You don’t want to end up with more bald patches, do you?”

Sian glowers at him. She didn’t have much for fur, just a fine orange layer over her tan skin, practically blending in. Most couldn’t even tell she was fuzzy except up close – unless there were bald patches, and the difference became obvious, and made it look like she had some sort of mange.

He grins, and hefts his saber. “You ready, then?” He asks.

Sian unclips hers from her belt, flipping it in hand and igniting it in reverse grip. “Are you?” She retorts.

“Get him, little sister!” Komari whoops, lounging on a bench to watch the match, washed out blue eyes gleaming cheerfully. The older padawan has been much more energetic of late, throwing herself hard and her own training and Sian’s, and Sian is glad to see it. Even if she winds up with a lot more bruises because of it. Komari played rough.

“No Shadow-Walking, no hits to the face, no one gets sent to the Halls.” Tsui reminds them. “Good luck, Sian!”

“Tsui!” Obi-Wan protests, and Sian laughs.

“Like you need luck, Obi-Wan.” She teases, igniting her saber, the rich call of the crystal sparkling through her, waking up her senses and soothing any pre-spar jitters. The crystal focuses the blade. The blade focuses the Jedi. The Jedi focuses the Force. The Force focuses the crystal. All are one.

“Are you saying you do?” Obi-Wan smirks, lighting his won blade. The deep jade is always slightly mesmerizing, the way darker blades are, both bright and deep, but it always raises her short fur.

“Did you turn the power down on that thing?” She asks.

“Yes.” He turns it in his wrist and glances down to check just in case. “Yours is a little higher than spar standard, right?” He asks in turn, thinking it only fair if his friends blades bit as hard as his did when they faced each other.

Hers wasn’t, and Sian has mixed feelings about correcting it, because _ow_ , but fair was fair, and Obi-Wan would rather use his own blade now than a practice one, and his friends couldn’t really argue with that, considering they got to spar with their own blades.

She’s glad he’s more comfortable with it now, though. A Jedi wasn’t meant to fear his own lightsaber.

She’s even tempted to ask her master if she can acquire a second saber crystal. Once she’s reached senior padawan, at least.

Their blades hum, Obi-Wan settling in to a Soresu defense, not with the overhead guard but with a low one, one that says he can wait as long as he needs to, he has no plans on moving, and Sian brings her blade across, the reverse grip crossing her body, taking the hilt into both hands.

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow, and he shifts his weight balance, prepping for a charge, prepping for her to hit _hard_. Sian grins.

She charges, but she hits not with overwhelming physical force, but with precise impact, striking up his guard and then whirling, nearly hooking his saber out of his hands in the first move, but Obi-Wan catches on quickly, and slides the contact point back down, low on the blades, and slams his elbow into her ribs. Sian’s grunts, but doesn’t give, holding herself to the world, locking the blades and shoving _him_ back instead.

She doesn’t immediately follow. She waits, breathes, and then pushes forward again. Makashi is not about overwhelming force, but about economy of motion, precision, and leverage, whittling away at an opponents defenses with minimal expenditure, as opposed to breaking them in a single move. Soresu, likewise, was a form of endurance and conservation of energy. One of one with Makashi, such a duel would be decided by which of them could outlast the other.

Even with Obi-Wan’s – or, more accurately – Master Naasade’s aggressive adaptation of the style.

But neither of them where students of singular disciplines. Obi-Wan could roll his defensive Form III right into Form V, Djem-So, launching power attacks and rolling defense into counterstrikes. Sian could flow Makashi into a more tightly disciplined version of acrobatic Ataru. They were impressive combinations without taking into account that both padawans were also adept practitioners of Force Structuring in combat.

Sian almost witnesses she could be watching their own spar right now, catching glimpses of the reactions of their observers, wishing she had a different angle to admire Obi-Wan twisting sweep, or her own precise flip-and-strike.

Later, she thinks. Someone had to be recording this. Instead, she focuses on the tight give-and-take between her and her opponent, on the flash and sizzle of sabers just barely kissing, on the way Obi-Wan rolls his grip when his bad wrist turns just so, on the half-second opening she gives when her guard drops too low to be effective with a reverse grip, on tracking his speed, on the way her muscles clench when she throws back against his blow.

It’s a slow progression of building momentum for the both of them, the spar getting fiercer and bolder the long it goes, as opposed to the other way around. Both of them were trained to focus on their endurance above all else, and it made for one hell of a challenge.

She slips a jab just between his arm and his rib and he launches himself back in a flip, barely saving his skin. His blade catches her bracer, and the blade stutters.

“ _Osik_.” He swears, and Sian charges him, chasing him up when he leaps, a thrill in her chest for every step on air, trusting the world to hold her, and he gets his saber lit again before she catches him. Locking blades and holding ground while - well, twenty feet off of the actual floor – falters both of them for a moment, and they drop a few feet, but not all the way. Sian’s just got a good standing when Obi-Wan presses forward, bending her back, blades crossed much too close to her chest. Sian gulps, and then puffs a laugh, and let’s her stance go.

His eyes widen frantically as they both suddenly fall. Sian arcs back, kicking him in the stomach before hitting the ground in a bruising roll that crushes the air from her lungs, making her wheeze when she rocks back to her feet.

Obi-Wan hits the floor even less gracefully, foot slipping, hitting his knees and putting down his hands to stop himself. He makes a sharp whistly sound low in his throat, buckling on his bad wrist and immediately coming back up, saber in his other hand, face white as a sheet.

“Did you just…?” Sian wheezes, lowering her saber.

“No!” He insists.

“Obi- _Wan_.” Tsui crosses his arms, large green eyes narrowing.

“Maybe.” The red-head admits, voice thin.

“Uh- _oh_.” Komari sings out, sitting up. “Need help to the Halls?”

“We’ll take him.” Tsui volunteers, trotting up to his friends.

“How bad is it?” Sian asks, stepping up, disengaging her lightsaber and clipping it to her belt, sweat making her skin sticky.

“It’s starting to swell.” Obi-Wan mutters, arm pressed against his stomach as he clips his own saber.

“Broken?” Tsui asks.

“Gods, I hope not.” Obi-Wan mutters, distressed at the thought.

“Should you take the brace off?” Sian isn’t sure it’s good for his circulation, if it’s swelling under the brace and armor.

Obi-Wan whines. “Yeah.” He says reluctantly. “If you could help me?”

“No.” Tsui replies dryly. “We’re just going to stand here and watch you hurt yourself more.”

Sian snorts, and Obi-Wan pulls a face. Sian and Tsui do their best to carefully loosen the armor and turn the vambrace just so, so that Obi-Wan can pull his hand free. He still hisses when it slides through, and Tsui winces. Unlacing the brace underneath is both easier and harder, given they keep accidentally jostling and prodding him, and none of them are brave enough to actually try and tug it off. I looks pretty tight.

“We’ll let your healer do that.” Sian says.

“He’ll be thrilled, I’m sure.” Obi-Wan mutters.


	17. Chapter 17

Healer Chias was _not_ thrilled, nor was Master Ben, who’d received notification that his padawan was in the Halls while he was instructing a class.

He’d sprained his wrist, and also refractured several of the carpal bones. Essja had worked his wrist over with a little Force healing and followed it up with Bacta injections.

Then he’d put Obi-Wan in a cast and told him he wasn’t allowed to use that hand for _anything_.

“I want to do it _right_ this time, Obi-Wan.” The Healer insisted, when Obi-Wan had protested. The original surgery had been done well, but the doctors on the research station hadn’t been Jedi Healers. The pantoran Healer even gave Obi-Wan a sling.

“Really?” Obi-Wan had whined.

“I don’t trust you.” Essja had replied cheerfully. “So yes, really. Leave the cast alone, use your sling, don’t use your hand, and don’t try and wear your armor over it.”

“For how long?”

“Come back in a few days and we’ll see how the bones are doing with the Bacta treatment. And make sure your getting-“

“Extra calcium and iron, I know.”

The inability to train made Obi-Wan exceedingly grouchy, and increasingly restless. He did his best to distract himself with helping Shmi – and trying not to tear his hair out doing so, because her studies where both behind and ahead of his own – and with helping the Nightbrother’s catch up on their Force Techniques. By the third Force Structures lesson, Talon was able to rejoin the rest of the class. Obi-Wan inquired why the rest of his brothers didn’t join him, Talon had looked at him funny.

“I’ll teach them. They’ll learn other things, and teach me.” The maroon skinned Zabrak had replied.

Obi-Wan had taken pause at that, but he supposed that was more how their culture learned. They practiced skills more with their own age groups, teaching each other once they had figured out their own teachers lesson, which aided the development of their community bonds.

Padawan Ventress joined Shmi’s study group occasionally, but she and her master were kept very busy trying to catch up and reintegrate, and they fell back into the habit of relying heavily on each other. That caused some muttering about the Temple, but given that Padawan Ventress was both brash _and_ skilled enough to challenge any of her peers to a spar and then thrash them in it when she took offense, it rarely came to anything more than a few grumbles here and there. Though Master Narec then had to deal with disapproving looks over _that_ as well.

He seems to have settled in though, rekindling an old friendship with Master Drallig, and building easy new friendships with Master Tholme and Master Fisto.

Obi-Wan also spends a lot more time trying to force himself to understand Nightsister Healing, with sporadic assistance from Quinlan, when he wasn’t teaching, and from Tsui, when he wasn’t in classes. Unlike Obi-Wan, who only has the four, one of which is self-study, Tsui is taking the standard six full classes plus a self-study course for this lesson cycle.

Still, Tsui’s interest a blessing, because, with a little assistance from Master Yaddle, he _gets_ it, where Obi-Wan just can’t seem to, and Obi-Wan screeches in outraged excitement when Tsui manages to reform the broken vase.

“It’s not exactly the same.” Tsui remarks, pushing at Obi-Wan’s face because he’s nearly squashing the Aleen and most definitely squeezing him too tight with a hug. “It’s built of the same materials, and the same aspects, but since I didn’t add anything, it still lost something to make up for the faults and gaps in the cracks.”

“But it’s _whole_ again.” Obi-Wan points out. “That’s amazing.”

Tsui smiles, pleased, and Master Yaddle sternly informs them both that under absolutely no circumstances are they to attempt anything more than broken pottery with that technique without supervision.

Tsui nods agreeably, but Obi-Wan points out that _he_ still hasn’t even managed that much. Yaddle’s flat look implies it’s only a matter of time, which is, in its own slightly scolding way, encouraging.

Essja gives him another Bacta injection at his check-up. He does not permit him to remove the cast.

“You don’t know the meaning of moderate activity. You put too much strain and stress on it.” His healer informs him succinctly, when he protests. “So the cast _stays on_.”

~*~

Shaak Ti is extremely concerned and then extremely pleased when Jax first sleeps like the dead for a few days upon receiving the dampening necklace and then blossoms into an almost giddy, very energetic young boy, a vast change from the shy youngling always traipsing in his brother’s wake.

He was still very quiet, but much more expressive, and he and Anakin seemed to feed into each other, so they had _two_ very giddy, energetic younglings on their hands.

Fortunately, they spent the better part of their mornings and afternoons in classes.

At Shaak Ti’s request, Sian and Obi-Wan had donated their leftover materials to the Medical Corps for further study in such applications. The similarity to Force Suppression devices made some of Jedi wary, but the results represented in Jax’s case swayed the argument, and the healers thanked them for it.

The boys situation appearing well in hand, Shaak focuses on her padawan, who is at present loosening the seas on some of her shirts with patent patience interspersed with sudden bursts of frustration and much sighing. Her padawan sighs a lot, of late, and Shaak Ti worries about melancholy, having read that pregnancy can cause depressive episodes in some cases, before and after the birth, before being informed that there is rather a bit of pressure on Shmi’s diaphragm at the moment, and that sighing is perfectly normal, as is the increased use of the ‘fresher which so often breaks up their study and training sessions. There is also increased pressure, after all, on Shmi’s bladder.

Shaak Ti marvels that her padawan isn’t more frustrated by he changes. Shaak Ti herself would be.

“We can recycle those for larger shirts, you know.” Shaak Ti reminds Shmi, whose long dark hair is pulled back in a loose braid, her padawan braid caught in the collar of her shirt as it so frequently was.

“Yes, but these are mine.” Shmi replies simply, and Shaak Ti pauses. Shmi is not…covetous, per se, but having things that belong to her is an aspect of life she does not take lightly, and Shaak Ti tries not to infringe upon the things that remind Shmi that she is free. The Jedi sacrifice much. Her padawan need not give up more than was necessary just to prove a point.

So Shaak Ti treads carefully. She appreciates Shmi’s term for her, _Marrat_ , but she hopes, one day, that Shmi Skywalker will not fear to call her Master.

“Perhaps, then, Shaak Ti suggests. “ we might simply acquire you some new ones? You will return to that size, and they will be rather worse for wear if you have adjusted the seams a dozen times in the interim.”

Shmi looks up at her, dark brown eyes thoughtful, and then she sighs, nodding, and abandons the work. She will have to fix what she has already done, but Shaak Ti’s suggestion will save her much frustration in the long run, and no one will be inconvenienced by it.

Her tunics and tabbards were loose enough yet, but her shirts and dresses where beginning get feel more constricting. Shaak and Shmi were hoping they could put off telling the Council until Shmi truly began to show, possibly as late as her six month, but her morning sickness – which in fact occurred at all hours of the day and night – and her mood swings – which were alarming, at times, for everyone involved – were not particularly subtle.

Shaak had also noticed Shmi’s increased appetite, to include cravings – which Shaak had to be assured, several times, were perfectly normal, even if Shmi ate some things that Shaak hadn’t thought were particularly compatible with the human digestive system nor pallet – and, unfortunately, some intermittent insomnia. Shmi had taken to walking the corridors at night, when she couldn’t sleep, and visiting Tholme.

“Have you thought of any names yet?” Shaak Ti inquires, escorting Shmi to the Quartermasters for the opportunity to stretch her legs. The intense tutoring that kept them both largely encloistered did have its drawbacks, but small sacrifices had to be made for ones padawan, and Shaak did not begrudge it. Shaak Ti has never considered the _naming_ of children before, being far outside her purview.

Shmi offers her a warm, amused look. “I have not met her yet.” She replies.

“Her?” Shaak Ti finds a smile coming easily to her with a spark of joy at the new revelation.

Shmi nods, quietly pleased, and Shaak Ti trills gladly. Shaak Ti’s last two traditional padawans had both been males of their species, and with Anakin and Jax, she thought perhaps her lineage could use a few more females among them.

And regardless of what Ben may complain – her padawans children _were_ most certainly a part of her Lineage.

Their future masters should simply count themselves fortunate that she was willing to consider sharing that claim.

~*~

“Mandalorian culture is not something one _trifles_ in, Padawan Keeto.” Ben informs the aggressively eager young padawan strictly. “Some Mandalorian fighting styles _cannot_ be taught to outsiders. To do so would be considered betrayal. Especially if the style is unique to ones clan. The same as letting a non-mandalorian who isn’t under Mandalorian protection wear _bekar’gam_.”

“But you and Padawan Kenobi aren’t _really_ Mandalorian. You’re still Jedi. Can’t I be just the same?” The dark haired girl insists.

Ben lifts a brow, slightly offended, even though he knows she doesn’t mean it unkindly. “Obi-Wan and I are _Jetii Manda_. We’ve sworn to the _Resol’nare_. The only exception we have been made is that the Order stands as our Clan, and everything that we would give of ourselves to the _Mand’alor_ , we instead give to the Force. But the culture, the traditions, the values, we still hold to those, we still embody those, and it is our responsibility to keep to them as any other Mando would.”

The girl frowns seriously, bold dark brows over ocean blue eyes.

“I can do that.” She mutters to herself, and then looks back up at him, insistent. “Can’t I do that?”

Ben sighs softly, running a hand through his loose cinnamon hair.

“It’s one thing to study a culture, Padawan Keeto. Your respect for Mandalore is admirable.” He adds, because he doesn’t want to hurt the girls feelings. Her interest was genuine. “But it is another to be a part of that culture. Mandalore and the Jedi have very different philosophies, for all that the six values may seem simple, even similar to Jedi teachings. Those philosophies, like our two peoples, often conflict. You’ve studied enough Jedi and Mandalorian history to know that.”

“I know.” She mutters.

“It’s not an easy path to take, and we are often looked at from both sides as outsiders. Too Mandalorian for the Jedi, too Jedi for Mandalore. If we were to adopt you into the Creed, there’d be no taking it back.”

“I know.” The twelve year old insists.

Ben is patient. “I know you want to be a great warrior, but you don’t have to be Mandalorian to be that.”

“But Mandalorians are the _best_ warriors.” She protests, crossing her arms. “I could do it, Master Naasade!”

“I want you to think about it with a little more care. Discuss it with your master. Do your research. If you really, absolutely insist on this – don’t interrupt – then I want you to come back to me with all the reasons why you shouldn’t even consider it – and then why you want to anyways.”

She scowls. “Did _you_ have to do that?”

“I was adopted half without my knowing.” Ben replies, smiling wistfully at memory. “And I learned this culture on the battlefield, through blood, sweat, and the bravery of the men and women I fought with. And I paid a price for that.”

“But you taught Obi-Wan!”

“My _padawan_.” Ben points out, which, from a Mandalorian standpoint, wasn’t so different from any other adoption, save that they found the Jedi’s casual disassociation from anything resembling a proper kin relationship as aberrant. “Yes, but Obi-Wan also learned it half under the _Mand’alor_ himself. We’re the first positive connection between The Jedi and Mandalore in six hundred years, Padawan Keeto. We have to tread carefully, or we risk losing the progress we’ve made for our peoples.”

She stares back up at him, hard. “So…maybe?”

Ben sighs, shaking his head a little. “Maybe.” He agrees warningly. She squeaks anyways, bows in a flurry, and runs off. Ben blinks after her, bemused, and heads into the Armory, his original destination before he was waylaid and bombarded by Drallig’s young padawan.

Ben had brought up the corrupted crystals to the Soul Healers. They’d agreed that the situation was not ideal, but healing Sith Crystals was beyond present wisdom. It was one thing, they informed him, to cleanse an object that had been tarnished by pain or grief or even the touch of the Dark Side (Such as his own former saber, which he hastily lead the subject away from), but those… the Sith’s crystals themselves _channeled_ it. It would be dangerous for any healer who tried, and they weren’t willing to try. The sabers were contained, and they weren’t a risk to the Temple or those inside it, and so they were content to let them be, and recommended he do the same.

But Ben was not nearly so content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: over 600K! What? Yay!


	18. Chapter 18

“Are you alright?” It feels off, to be asking his Soul Healer that, but the young Voss seems…agitated, for all that he is keeping himself still, sitting across from Quinlan.

Perhaps the kiffar notices because Weyl-Va is holding himself so still, so carefully neutrally apart from this moment, where Quinlan is used to this healer being more engaged, more readable, than his last.

Weyl-Va takes a short breath through his nose, blue nostril flaring, tension around orange eyes relaxing into resignation. “No. I am…displeased.”

Quinlan props his chin on a closed fist. “Can I ask why?”

His healer thrums, low in his throat, a crackly vibrato humming. “Has today been a good day for you, Quinlan? How was your class?”

Quinlan’s brow pinches, because the question seems like a misdirection – completely off topic, but there is something in his healer’s tone that suggests the question has a very apt point. “Good. I mean, they were clearly on their best behavior because I think they’re half terrified that if they step out of line I’ll go Darkside on them, but, it went _well_.” And he didn’t exactly consider a little terror-induced good behavior to be a _bad_ thing. Research Methods wasn’t exactly captivating material, and bored younglings were the worst. Initiates, Disciples, and Junior Padawans could be _snots_ , when they put their mind to it. He remembers what they’d get up to when the instructor had their back turned – and what the instructors would let them get away with, sometimes. After all, Quinlan hadn’t exactly been well-behaved himself at that age.

 _Or at any age_ , he thinks snarkily.

But teaching, being trusted to teach, having it go well, it felt good. He was… _happy_ about it. Quinlan smiles faintly, nodding to himself. “I’m good.” He reiterates.

“Good.” Healer Weyl-Va nods. “And the Force? How does that feel?”

Quinlan’s calm, a little pleased, a little relieved. He’d even had a chat with Aayla at lunch, the little twi’lek flustered over her _dakunn’s_ tendency to chew up her little plush monsters, and he’d tried not to laugh while coaching her on responsibility. Her pet – named T’da, which was cute – needed training, discipline, and enrichment just as much as she did. The Force, likewise, dances lightly, warm and smooth and he relaxes into its embrace. “Light.” He replies.

He opens himself to it, just a little, focusing on his happiness and satisfaction, as he and Weyl-Va have practiced, and that gentle warmth intensifies, rushing through him, making him giddy. He resists the urge to stop it there, to hold on to it, and lets it flow instead, using him as a conduit, a filter, and then spreading out into the room, to Healer Weyl-Va, who can’t help but smile, to the aquariums, feeding the plants, and the fish, and the coral before reaching the walls and fizzling a bit, shielded the way they were. Quinlan draws himself out of it before he’s compelled to go do something with it – and he will be, he knows, if he doesn’t. It’s not a bad thing, but going off on a Force-guided task is not what he’s supposed to be doing right now.

“And the Dark Side?”

Quinlan puzzles a little. “I’m not touching the Dark Side right now.”

And Healer Weyl-Va had had a tough few weeks trying to get that through his head, that not every brush with emotion, even negative emotions, was a twist of the Dark Side, was an inherent failing in his person and his training, even if interacting with the Force like that was not as this Temple traditionally taught.

He misses it, sometimes, the way the Force used to feel, the ability to simply let go of things, to release his emotions and swim solely on his insight and his intelligence through that great interconnectedness that the Force was. But he was learning to embrace the new paths, the new connections, the sheer sensation and enlightenment of emotion, in a way he’d ignored, even scorned before, thinking his feelings merely a distraction, an obstacle between him and a greater understanding of _everything_.

Curiosity had always been his greatest strength, and weakness. It drove him towards great accomplishments, but also towards his worst mistakes.

“No.” Healer Weyl-Va says softly, a touch of pride for Quinlan in his tone. “You are not. And that is why I am displeased.”

“ _What_?”

“Not with you.” The Voss adds quickly, amused and a tad apologetic for the unintended implication. “The past few months, you have proven to me a great deal of your character, discipline, and philosophy. I am gratified with your progress, and by your desire to _continue_ to progress, and as such I recommended to the Board of Soul Healers and to the Reconciliation Council that they lift the restriction on your progress towards Knighthood.”

Quinlan is…shocked, and a little bit terrified by that, but the panic fades quickly, because he wants his Knighthood, he’s earned it, hasn’t he? He’s done everything they’ve asked and he’s determined that he won’t give in again, he won’t fail as a Jedi – but he catches the implication, and it doesn’t matter. Because –

“They refused.” Quinlan states bluntly, and Healer Weyl-Va nods, unhappy.

Quinlan swallows, hanging his head a bit, rubbing his palms together, letting the friction burn. “In the Council’s eyes I already failed my trials. I Fell.” Quinlan grits his teeth, jaw aching. He wants to declare that it wasn’t even his fault, he’d made a mistake, but, well, it was the kind of mistake he really shouldn’t have made. He may not have known how much he was risking, but he wasn’t blameless. “Then what is the _point_ of this?” He fumes.

Healer Weyl-Va sighs in sympathy. “Not all rewards are external.” The healer says simply, a statement which should come across as pithy instead being painfully earnest.

The kiffar padawan curls in on himself, a snarl of _anger-hurt-betrayal_ seething in his chest, fuel just waiting to catch fire, but Quinlan is far better at deciding what burns these days. It’s not Healer Weyl-Va’s fault, this stagnant limbo he’s caught in, the edges of it closing in like a cage he batters himself against more and more.

Quinlan nods tightly instead, and Healer Weyl-Va inquires if he wishes to continue their session, or go apply himself elsewhere, aware that Quinlan has taken to practicing dathomiri magicks after their more turbulent sessions. It gives him something to focus on, a way to utilize the emotional conflict that gets dredged up.

Quinlan chooses to dismiss himself, knowing he is in no mood to make any headway today, and that his Healer likely isn’t either. Weyl-Va follows him out of the room directly, laying a slightly cool to the touch blue hand on his arm briefly.

“A Jedi is less about what we are, and more about what we strive to be, Quinlan Vos.” His healer says seriously, orange shimmering eyes focused with intent. “And you are a fine Jedi, worthy of Knighthood. What the Council has to say about it…” Voss don’t growl, they don’t even really have an imitation of the sound, their attempt resulting in more of a nasally hiss, like compressed air. “ … matters far less than what you have in here.” He presses his palm briefly to Quinlan’s chest, which is more contact than anyone outside his immediate circle has dared give him in years.

Something in Quinlan’s chest twists and wavers, all liquid and wobbly, and Quinlan swallows before cracking a lopsided grin. “Thanks.” He drawls a cheer, trying not to show that he’s a little shaky for _no damn reason_.

His Healer nods succinctly; a prim, polite gesture, lips quirked in a private smile, and steps away as someone calls out to him. Quinlan rolls his shoulders, clears his throat, and heads off. Already Healer Weyl-Va is immersed in a tight conversation quickly joined by a third person, with the shortened, sharp tones and motions of Jedi having an argument that they refuse to call an argument.

Quinlan appreciates the efforts he’s given by the healers, considering their own predicament. _Temple’s Bane_ hit the healers pretty hard, both in the toll on their own staff and the increased need for their services by the rest of the temple. Merging with the MediCorps had been both a boon and a burden, additional competent staff mixed in with too many hands trying to do more than they were supposed to do, more than they were trained to do, leaving so many to teach and so much else to still attend to. They kept a tight lid on it, but Quinlan was in an out of the Halls often enough to see it, to know they were pressed thin and that it wasn’t helping their lingering anxiety and guilt following the outbreak.

Quinlan carries a dark chill out of the Halls with him, and he knows it because the padawan at the service desk flinches as he stalks by. He wants to snarl out that they’re perfectly safe, he’s not going to hurt them, but he doubts he can manage that in a tone that will inspire any actual confidence, so he doesn’t bother.

Whoever steps up and slings an arm over his shoulder his second turn out of the Halls, however, is definitely _not_ so safe, and Quinlan turns, ready to slam them into a wall, only to have a hand clamp down on his shoulder, and a tingly feeling crawl up his neck before his arm goes numb-

“Easy there, kiddo.” The mystery Jedi snorts. “No friendly fire, eh?”

“Do I know you?” Quinlan snaps. “I’m not sure we’re _friends_.”

“Oh,” The Jedi grins, an oddly endearing look on his older face, thick, dark blue hair curling around pale ears that suggest Barolian heritage. “I think we will be. You can call me Trip, Padawan Vos, and I really wouldn’t mind inviting you over for a cup of tea.”

Quinlan’s mind takes a screeching moment to recognize that that is not, in fact, the bad proposition it first appeared to be, but a very _particular_ kind of invitation.

Quinlan arches his brows. “Oh _really_?”

~*~

Ben steels himself to enter the sealed chamber. He knows the environmental systems are in perfect working order, but the air still feels stale, hard to breath, the room too cold, the space both too small and yet engulfing.

The broken mask stares back at him from behind reinforced transparisteel. It’s shattered across the left side, part of the jaw and cheek missing, but the rest…would have been beautiful once, he thinks. There is no lense nor visor, and the cut of the space for the eyes suggests a humanoid wearer. A starburst pattern on lines erupts from each of the eyes – inlaid with some dull, cracking gemstone, nearly black, glinting with hints of green or red as he paces, some type of ruby, perhaps. The mask itself is a pale, tarnished pearlescent thing, the surface scratched and scored, more of those dark, bursting lines flowing up from the chin, covering where the mouth would be beneath, stopping in asymmetrical, uneven measure beneath the nose. There is even a frayed rip of fabric along the edge, where the mask connected to a headdress or a wrap, the color made indiscernible by time.

The pair of sabers, upon closer inspection, are not, he realizes, a matched set. Complimentary, but they weren’t made for the same person, not originally, at least. The one on the right is heavier, the grip higher, the one on the left made for a smaller hand, with a wider grip for a more versatile style, but both were engraved with diamond-like patterns, detailed in green and blue, and what he first mistakes as red prayer ribbons he thinks, in fact, is a marriage cord, divided in two.

The longer he stares at them, the harder they scrabble at the back of his skull, twin screams blurring, one of pain, one of fury.

Ben takes a breath, feeling ill, and lowers himself – not to kneeling - but to sitting cross-legged, laying his palms on his knees. The book in his pocket gets caught beneath his hip, and he shifts, tugging the fold of his robe loose, before settling again.

Ben takes a breath, and cautiously reaches out.

Needle-like pain drives behind his eyes, a suffocating kind of kind swarming around his mind like bees, and the screaming gets louder, crowding his ears, clawing down his breath, overwhelming and maddening, like a tide-

Ben holds himself steady, waiting for the tide to pass.

Waiting.

Waiting.

He takes a breath, but it doesn’t feel like he’s breathing. He’d frown if he weren’t concentrating so fiercely on not letting that tide take him. He takes a less passive position, and presses back at the crystals, trying to sense something through the intensifying pain building in his head, through the violent miasma that lashes at him in the Force like a wounded animal, and he thinks he finds it, something – a flicker, a presence-

He pushes a little harder, and it gives, gladly, the maw of the trap ready to swallow him whole, and _that is not a crystal-_

There is, in the Force, the oddest understanding of a sense that reaches him through the battering his shields take, trying to snap back, trying to close himself off from what he may have just accidentally let in-

A sense, not unlike a Master, cuffing a Padawan about the ear for taunting an Initiate.

And in this case, Ben believes he is the Initiate.

It stops, everything stops, rearing back just as violently as it had attacked him. The ferocious, desperate tug of war on his psyche, the wailing of the corrupted sabers – it all retreats. He sucks in a breath and pushes to his feet with a stagger, backing away.

Away from the crystals, from the _Sith Holocron_.

One made the old way, when the wielder pours everything that they are and ever were and could be into their blade, transferring into the focus their own connection to the Force, binding them to it forever.

Ben stares at the mask, at the lightsabers, alone in a room with a Sith Holcoron, and yet, something had interfered. Something had stepped in.

And Ben has no idea what to make of that.


	19. Chapter 19

“What.”

Ben ignores the flat, slightly beleaguered look that comes over the councilors face at the sight of him.

“Good morning Mace, did you know we have a Sith Holocron sitting in the back of the armory?” Ben inquires with false cheer.

“ _What_?”

“And I think I just woke it up.” Ben adds, voice a tad thready, but to be fair, he himself was still a little in shock, the edges of his shields feeling like snagged cloth, mental bruises blooming into a wonderful headache.

He’s rather glad the Healers were too busy to devote someone to attempting to cleanse the sabers themselves, as removing them from their current home in the armory would have had far worse consequences than they realized. It’s one thing to try and purify a dark artifact, and another to go up against the very much conscious will of something – pardon, someone – malicious. They likely would have come off just as bad as he did – or worse, given, well, given. Ben was still uneasy about that interference he sensed.

“Why?” Mace questions resignedly.

Ben huffs. “It wasn’t _intentional_.” He protests.

“That is not-“ Mace cuts off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ben.” He says slowly. “Are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh, I took a bit of a bludgeoning, but it’s nothing meditation and a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”

“Do you get good nights’ sleep?” Mace snorts, though the inquiry is laced with concern.

“On occasion.” Ben replies positively.

Mace glowers at him and sighs. “Is it…contained?”

“As of yet, yes.” Ben replies. “There’s a vault in the back of the armory, and from what I can tell, its influence is limited to the inside of the vault.” The vault being exceedingly well shielded. He half wonders if whomever the battlemaster was that placed the sabers there knew what they were, but he couldn’t find any details in the records. It was, apparently, a battlemaster’s trade secret, and one that appears to have been lost. Drallig certainly didn’t warn him. When Ben had asked, he’d grunted that he’d only been in there the once, and once had been enough.

Fortunately, Drallig had also of yet barred his young padawan from going any further into the armory than the Hall of Relics, and even then only when accompanying him.

The harun kal master looks him over and shakes his head. “How you get into these things…” He mutters.

Ben chuffs a laugh, and Mace is not amused.

~*~

Quinlan slurps down a swampy, kelpy imitation of Afke, and gives Master Yaddle and…Trip, the Third of Shadows and his potential mentor, a hard, displeased look.

Quinlan hadn’t even been out of the creche before someone had quietly explained to him what a tap on the shoulder from the Shadows might look like, given his abilities and the chance that his skills would develop that way. But he’s still surprised. After his Fall, he’d rather given that that was off the table, considering, well… if you can’t even fight the darkness within yourself…

But according to them… according to them, his ability to utilize his own darkness is exactly the asset they’re looking for, along with his psychometric tracking abilities. They have a lead, and they need someone who can get close enough to turn a lead into proof.

Quinlan doesn’t entirely believe them. Oh, he’s certain that’s what they’re hoping for – proof – but he can see the scenario clearly enough. They aren’t looking at him as a Tracker.

“You want me to play _bait_.” Quinlan says flatly. “For the _Sith_.”

He’s torn between feeling vindicated and outright fripping furious. That’s a wish and a prayer of a death sentence, is what that is, that’s-

 _A desperate gamble_ , the more aloof part of him recognizes, the part that’s detached and observant and cares more for the facts than for his sense of self. The part of him that makes him a Jedi.

He’s sitting in front of the Master of Shadows and her Third, and they are turning to someone like him, to do something like that, because they are _desperate_.

Quinlan doesn’t like that. It makes him feel itchy and clammy cold and afraid.

 _Things aren’t that bad, are they_? He questions. _What don’t I know_?

Curiosity needles at him, gnawing with worry.

“I’m not gonna lie, kid.” Trip says, the Shadow looking serious, and not an ounce sorry for what he’s asking, liquid dark eyes unflinching, staring back at the accusation. “We’re asking you to go right into the mouth of the beast. It’s not safe, it’s probably not sane, and if we had a better option, we wouldn’t be asking. All we need is for you to get close enough to bring back reasonable confirmation that the target is truly a Sith. That-“ Trip stops, Quinlan cocks his head.

 _That- what_? He thinks, his mind ticking it over. _Proof. Confirmation_.

 _Force_ , Quinlan thinks viciously, _really_?

“That they’re _real_.” Quinlan scoffs, finishing for him. “You don’t believe?”

“Doubt, there is.” Yaddle replies. “Clouded by fear. Decisive action, the Jedi cannot take, if divided on the reality of the threat, we are.”

Quinlan scowls He’s not entirely certain where his own conviction comes from, but he knows Obi-Wan believes, and that Master Naasade and Tholme believe, and he trusts them with everything that he is. So he believes.

Quinlan sets his cup down harshly and digs his fingers into his hair. _Un-kriffing-believable_. “And how much proof would my dead body be?” He asks snarkily.

“Oh, probably not enough.” Trip replies blithely, not missing a beat. “Which is why you ought to come back _alive_.”

Quinlan really doesn’t want to like the guy, but he kind of does.

He mulls over the proposition, torn. On the one hand, now he knows why his Knighthood was denied, on the other-

They want to stage a break from the Temple, from the Jedi. That means turning his back on Tholme, on Obi-Wan, on his friends. It has to appear… _genuine_.

If the enemy catches him, the appearance of broken loyalty is his only lifeline.

 _It’s insanity is what it is_ , he thinks. It _might_ save his life, but only if its enough for the Sith to consider him…a candidate. It’s one thing to risk his life, and another to risk his sense of self, his soul.

 _I don’t want to do this_ , he thinks full of fear.

But being a Jedi is not about what one wants. It’s no about what they need. It’s about what _must_ be done.

And he has a terrified feeling that this must be done.

“You have to let me tell Obi-Wan.” He blurts out.

Trip sighs. “Kid, that’s not-“

“Look.” Quinlan grits out. “I’ll do it, alright? I’ll probably get myself killed or _worse_ , but I understand what is at stake, just… I have to tell him. He has to know. If this….if it all goes to the ninth circle of hell, he’ll – he’ll save me. Even if he has to kill me.”

He’ll do a lot for the Jedi, but breaking that bond… no. He won’t do that. It’s selfish and risky and demanding and probably unfair of him, but he won’t do it. He _can’t_.

Convincing Tholme to stay, to let him leave _without_ him, that was going to be hell, but with Shmi and the baby on the way… Quinlan could do it. His master loves him enough that if Quinlan makes it – _by all the little gods, please let me make it_ – Tholme will forgive him. Dealing with his friends would be difficult, and maybe some of them wouldn’t forgive him so easily after, but most of them are out of temple right now. He doesn’t even have to say goodbye. And Aayla… Aayla might be better off, if he weren’t here. Her connection with him was a mark against her. It wouldn’t count so much if he weren’t around.

“Allow this, I will.” Master Yaddle states, staring at him with serious, deep eyes, a wealth of understanding in them – and strict expectation.

Quinlan swallows thickly, nodding. “I take it then that this is my Trials?” He drawls weakly.

“This isn’t the Trials, kid.” Trip says bluntly. “You’ve already faced your Trial, and you overcame. This is what those Trials are meant to prepare you for.”

Quinlan takes that in with a shaky breath, hands fidgeting in his lap. He nods solemnly, and Trip offers him a grimacing smile of empathy. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

Quinlan can’t help it, he huffs out a laugh, and Yaddle eyes them both, shaking her head.

~*~

He turns the data chip in his hands over and over and over. There is a prickly, expansive feeling in his chest, something like vindication, like excitement, and a cold, hard knot in his stomach, a whisper in the back of his mind asking _what are you doing_?

Bruck had been grateful, for the break from the Temple, when Xanatos had sent him an invitation saying he was on planet. Xanatos wasn’t always good company, but he was someone who wasn’t a Jedi, but understood how – how _infuriating_ and difficult the Temple could be.

So Bruck had snuck out and gone to meet him. The hotel Du Crion was staying at had been intimidatingly expensive, and even with his telosian velvet coat on over his tunics, Bruck had felt inadequate under the discerning and slightly disapproving looks of the human staff.

Xanatos’ first remark had been upon the Jedi’s dreadfully quaint sense of fashion, disparaging what he called their false claim to humility when really they were just _cheap_. In his opinion, unnecessarily so.

Bruck had been proud of his tunics once, when the Initiates got to take fields trips, and everyone would point them out and smile at the future Jedi. He’s not proud of them anymore, and the acknowledgement that he’s not proud of it anymore aches in a way he doesn’t understand.

The food had been fantastic – it always was, when Xanatos was ordering – and Du Crion had let him vent about his training, about the fact that outsiders were being apprenticed whereas Bruck could barely catch a Masters eye, about how stupid, clumsy Obi-Wan was now-

Xanatos had been interested in Obi-Wan. His demeanor had changed, his interest turning less placating and more genuine, his questions more prying, and Bruck had felt-

 _Jealous_. He didn’t want to tell Xanatos about Obi-Wan.

So he didn’t tell him; not about Obi-Wan’s Force Structuring class, not about Shadow-Walking, not about the way he stared at Bruck with angry confusion sometimes, which, to be fair, Bruck understood perfectly, feeling it himself, not about his injury, which had him teaching class in a cast with a rueful grin on his face, saying that that was why you shouldn’t play around with the techniques he was teaching.

Rumor had it though, that this injury was caused by his _old_ injury, when his lightsaber blew up in his hand.

 _It nearly killed him_! The padawan had explained, with the excited awe of a sensational report.

Bruck had a brief, involuntary moment to imagine what it would be like, if Obi-Wan had died then, when his lightsaber blew up, and Bruck decides he doesn’t like thinking about that.

So he changes the subject, and Xanatos loses interest, but continues to indulge him, and it feels different than it did when they were back on Telos. Bruck doesn’t know why it upsets him so much, that Xanatos seems bored with him, but it does. It squirms around in his gut and claws at his chest and makes him want to shout and break things and demand attention and just as he’s boiling with it Xanatos smiles, sapphire blue eyes glittering.

“Think you have some time for some _real_ training, or is there some little mediation class you need to scamper off to?” He’d inquires loftily, and Bruck had felt relief and excitement rush through him.

“I can train.” He promised. It wasn’t like anyone at the Temple would miss him.

“Excellent.” Xanatos had purred, rising and laying a hand on his shoulder, guiding him into another room.

They didn’t have much time, working on a technique Xanatos had started teaching him back on Telos, a version of a mind trick using a mangy tooka as a subject, inspiring it to fear to make the snarling animal passive, pushing on the instinctive centers of its limited mind, until it was harmless and obedient to his will.

“The Jedi may teach flattery,” Xanatos mused, toeing the cowed creature distastefully with one overpriced shoe. “but a little harmless fear is just as effective, and, I find, far more efficient.”

Bruck, still breathless and almost giddy with power, with how easy it was, when he’d struggled so much with lessons in calming and coaxing skittish animals at the Temple as a youngling, couldn’t help but agree.

Xanatos had wrapped an arm around his shoulders as he stepped past him, offering a warm, pleased “Well done.” that made Bruck flush.

Then he’d asked for a favor. Nothing much, but there was some data he needed from the Temple Archives.

All he had to do was take the data chip and plug it directly into the port Xanatos told him to.

 _“_ It’s nothing for you to worry about, Bruck.” Xanatos had promised. “It’s just a matter of business, is all. I’ve helped you plenty and this is your chance to repay the favor. That is how this _works_ , you know. Besides,” He adds soothingly. “ the Jedi us owe us both, don’t you agree?”

Bruck had still questioned what, exactly, Xanatos was after.

“Nothing you would understand.” Du Crion had frowned. “If you can’t help me, that’s fine. Just don’t expect me to be around for awhile if I have to make do without your assistance.”

“I’ll do it.” Bruck had promised, feeling guilty and _needing_ Xanatos to keep teaching him. He was _good_ at what Xanatos taught him, and Xanatos was kind of a prick, but he _understood_ Bruck, in a way his father didn’t, in a way the Jedi didn’t.

Xanatos had sighed in relief. “Thank you, Bruck. I do appreciate it, truly.”

Bruck had promised, but something kept nagging at him, and he turned the data chip over and over and over.

He didn’t owe the Jedi anything. They took him from his family and then threw him back out, saying he wasn’t good enough. They’d _raised_ him, and then it was _his_ fault he wasn’t good enough?

And what they’d done to Xanatos was _worse_.

So what if the businessman wanted a little data? Offworld was a mining and technologies corporation. He was most likely after patents, or star charts, or something.

The door chime to his room goes off, so Bruck shoves the data chip in his pocket and goes to answer it.

The person on the other side surprises him. “What the kriff do you want?” Bruck demands.

Obi-Wan’s brow draws low, and he leans back a bit, arms crossing. “You missed this weeks lesson.” He says bluntly, jaw hard set. “I know you’re have difficulty mastering the staircase, but you shouldn’t give up. I thought you might just need a little extra help.” He offers grudgingly.

“Not from _you_.” Bruck snaps, humiliated that _Oafy-Wan_ , of all people, was _pitying_ him. _Or_ , an angry, bitter voice whispers snidely, _rubbing his failure in his face_.

The red-head steps back, temper flashing hot. “Fine.” He growls. “Forget I offered.”

They glare at each other, and Bruck pushes out of his dorm, stalking down the hall and ignoring the hiss Obi-Wan gives when their shoulder check and wrenches on his bad arm.

“ _Besom_.” The red-head mutters. Bruck doesn’t know the language, but he catches the gist. _Screw you too, Obi-Wan_. He thinks viciously. _I don’t need your pity. I don’t need anyone’s pity. I’ll prove it. I’ll prove it._

 _I’m fine on my own_.

_I can be better. I can be stronger._

_I will be_.

 _I have to be. I have to be_.

 _I have to be good enough_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: some of your comments on the last chapter....did....did you forget who Trip was?  
> Also, I see some of you catch on to plot threads and get pretty close with your speculations and it just makes me giddy.
> 
> Mando'a:  
> Besom - lout, rude person, jerk, ill-mannered


	20. Chapter 20

Shaak Ti meditates contemplatively, turning over how best to….defer the proposal she has received, to journey to Dathomir and learn from the Witches. She is intrigued, to be sure, but with Shmi’s situation….

She’ll see her padawan Knighted first. She has to.

And she’d rather like to see the little Skywalker born too.

Shmi, in place of meditating, is performing strength-stretches, presently on her palms, carefully shifting her weight to lift first one leg, and then the second, and then there is a very liquid sloshing that Shaak Ti feels from the tips of her montrals to the ends of her lekku, and she shudders.

She has been getting used to the fluttery, erratic pulses of the embryos movement, at times even sharing in her padawans quiet delight as the embryo twitches and kicks, but sensing her padawan’s womb shift and slide as she inverts herself into a hand-stand is not _comfortable_.

Shaak Ti surrenders her chance to meditate and rises, offering Shmi a bemused look on her way past, but there is a placid concentration on her padawan’s face, and her eyes are closed. One leg bends carefully, but Shmi hesitates about the possibility of shifting to one hand. Her posture wobbles slightly.

Shaak can sense the thump-tap-tap drumming of little kicks, and Shmi surrenders as well, lowering herself carefully until she is kneeling securely on the floor, hands over her growing figure. She sighs, shifts uncomfortably, and heads to the ‘fresher.

Shaak Ti warms a pot of tea, setting out a cup for her padawan when she returns, and watches her stir in one of the vitamin additives the healers had given her. “Are you prepared for your evaluation this afternoon?” Shaak Ti inquires.

Shmi is going to test for her ExploraCorp Journeyman level. She can be knighted on that education coupled with her HeriCorps alone, though Shaak Ti would have wished to have been able to include JudiCorps or DiploCorps as well, but under their time constraints…. Shmi’s lack in some areas was just too vast. She can finish her education in either after Knighthood, there is nothing stopping her from that, but Shaak doesn’t wish Shmi to feel as if she is less deserving of the title simply because of the push of circumstances which drove her towards it.

As it is, Shaak frets over Shmi’s utter lack of solo field experience. Current assignments made fulfilling the requirement difficult, and Shaak was on the look out for a mission where a senior padawan might be able to take a lead, enough to prove her capability as an authority in the field.

Preferably one safe enough to send her _pregnant_ padawan on.

“As prepared as I can be.” Shmi replies, sipping delicately. “I know what I know. What I do not….” She shrugs. “We shall see.”

Shaak has never had a padawan less concerned with evaluations, but Shmi was not raised in the competitive, demanding environment of the temple. She considered her evaluations an obstacle, but not so dire of a concern as her peers did.

Shaak Ti studies her student with care. Shmi a little flushed from exertion, her hair curling, loose strands pulling free of her braid, her face a little rounder than usual. There is strength in her frame now to match that of her spirit, and a security of self in the way she stands, in the look in her eyes, that did not used to be there. She is so much less afraid, of the world, of others, of herself, than she used to be.

“I am proud of you.” Shaak informs her.

Shmi blinks, wiping tea from her lip, and smiles shyly, one of those rare, sweet Skywalker smiles.

“Thank you _Marrat_ ….” Shmi says, looking Shaak in the eyes, sharp brown gave brimming with surety, with trust, with intent. The amavikkan woman takes a breath, lifts her chin with pride in herself, and then she bows. “Master.”

Shaak feels her eyes widen, a surprised chirp running through her montrals, thankfully beyond the range of human hearing. Her cheeks flush slightly, with embarrassment, with emotion, and she bows respectfully in turn.

And then she pulls the other woman into a hug, feeling a grin light her face as she presses their brows together briefly, fiercely grateful that she has had the honor of watching her padawan – her friend – free herself.

True slavery is not in whips and chains and detonators, but in far less tangible constructs, in fears and mindsets and thoughts not so easily struck from a person. Depurs worst evil is not in the crimes they commit against body, but in the crimes they commit against agency, against the mind and soul. Ben’s work in freeing Shmi from slavery was done in a day. Shmi’s work to free herself of it may yet take her a lifetime.

But she has already come so far.

~*~

Masters Ky Narec and Qui-Gon Jinn observed the spectacle before them with the exact same expression of pained restraint.

Their padawans held no such qualms about facing each other – Jar’Kai Shii-Cho against Reverse Makashi, both of them with challenging grins and daring lights in their eyes. They started out slow, testing each other – and themselves – slowly building in both speed and force and agility.

“Those cortoisis bracers serve her well, but I almost think she’d suit a shield.” Narec remarks, surprising Qui-Gon, head titled as he observes the spar. Ventress was an inch or so taller than Sian, but Sian was one of the most adept Force Structurists the Temple had. Even limiting herself to ground level, it gave her an edge in her maneuverability. Which was good, because the dathomiri girl had a dancers grace and flexibility, her skills honed through experience more than training, through necessity to survive, giving her that tighter, deeper connection to her lightsabers that most padawans just didn’t have yet.

“Like a Corellian riot shield?” Qui-Gon inquires dubiously.

Narec’s lips quirk. “She’s near tall enough for one, but it would hinder her maneuverability. I was thinking more like a Mandalorian plasma buckler. Could probably get one fit right into her cortoisis bracer, if you know the right smithy.”

“You think I know _any_ smithies?” Qui-Gon counters wryly, though he dos turn the suggestion over in his head. The small round energy shield would have no place in traditional Makashi, but with her reverse grip… what had been a weakness in defense could turn her experimental form into something impressively well-rounded, and therefor devastating.

Narec looks at him funny. “You are friends with Master Naasade, aren’t you?”

Qui-Gon makes a hard sound in the back of his throat. “It depends on the day.” He replies dryly.

Narec snorts.

Still, the idea sticks with him, and Qui-Gon finds himself quietly stepping into a training dojo as Ben wraps up a class full of Journeyfolk and Disciples learning or relearning the basics of Soresu. His students look beleaguered and distressed as they file out, but a few of their padawan friends who came to collect them after assure them that Master Naasade taught the Initiates returning from Ilum in just the same manner, and that _everyone_ came out of his classes like that.

Qui-Gon isn’t sure if that’s an endorsement or not, but it does make them a little less glum.

“Do you really push Initiates that hard?” Qui-Gon inquires, stepping up after they’ve all filed out, moving to assist the Mandalorian Jedi in setting the training dojo back to rights.

“It makes them grateful for their crechemasters.” The deputy battlemaster smirks faintly. “And it wizens them up as to how much effort their training should actually entail. What they want, what they admire, it does not come _easy_.” He says. “And besides, it keeps them from being too rambunctious. There’s only so much one can endure when stuck in a ship with a dozen younglings. It’s better if they’re too tired to cause trouble.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with that.” Qui-Gon shakes his head, amused.

“What can I do for you, Qui-Gon?” Ben lifts a brow inquiringly.

“I wanted a second opinion on acquiring Sian a plasma buckler to install in her bracer.” Qui-Gon informs him.

“Mandalorian, Nubian, or Umbaran style?” Ben asks, and Qui-Gon hesitates.

“I don’t know.” He mutters. “It was only a suggestion.”

Ben smirks. “I’m going to recommend the Mandalorian model, and not because I’m culturally biased.” The cinnamon haired jedi suggests, crossing his arms. “It has less coverage, but its more reliable overall in a battlefield scenario. The Umbaram design can deflect higher powered charges, but it can only take so much before it needs a recharge cycle. The cycle’s not long, but under fire… it’s long enough to get you killed if you’re pinned down. The Nubian personal shield has the widest range, and the lowest power requirement, but its an emitter design, stronger in the center and weaker the farther out it gets. It’s more effective against assassination attempts – which is what it was designed for - than it is for field use, but I’d consider it a viable alternative.”

Qui-Gon nods along thoughtfully. “And what are the chances we could actually acquire a Mandalorian personal defense shield?” He’s not unaware of the Order’s current financial situation, and he hasn’t particularly saved up any personal funds he might have acquired. “Or are we lucky enough to have one in the armory?”

Ben snorts. “If we had one in the armory, you’d be challenging Padawan Keeto for it, and I’m not sure you’d win.” He looks aside, frowning a bit. “Jedi are currently barred from the Mandalore system, and finding someone outside of the Creed whose willing to sell is unlikely. Finding someone _in_ the Creed willing to sell is unlikely. Even if it’s to me. I could try and build one? We might have the necessary components in Temple.”

Qui-Gon stares. “You could just….build one.” He repeats.

Ben looks up, brows lifting. “Possibly. I make no promises.”

Qui-Gon clears his throat. “Right. It would be…appreciated. And if you could not tell Sian? I rather think I’d like to surprise _her_ , for once.”

Ben smiles, looking equal measures pleased and amused at that. “I think I could oblige.” He murmurs. “And I know your padawan would appreciate the endeavor.” He adds, which Qui-Gon finds…strangely vindicating.

“Thank you.” He replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Hey all, i'm not sure what my update schedule is going to look like the next two weeks with what i'm going to have going on, so bear with me if i can't get chapters out. I love you all!


	21. Chapter 21

Shmi Skywalker looks back at him with a quiet, focused regard in her dark brown gaze that lends a similar quiet to his own bearing. There is simply something settled about her that settles him in her presence – an affect he knows she has on many, and at times it is disconcerting, and at times it is such a comfort.

She turns over the datapad in her hand, setting it neatly aside, and looks him over with that regard, making a study on him, a touch of concern in her brow. “It is soundly written.” She tells him, of the missive he has given to her, for her to give to his master. “It holds much painful honesty and no small amount of your care and feeling.” She says, a pinch in the corner of her mouth for having to evaluate someone elses writing – not a position she perhaps would have ever considered herself to be in. “And he will not believe it, as neither do I.” She finishes, holding his gaze.

Quinlan cracks a rueful twitch of a grin, looking down. “I know.” He replies, looking back up. “But he isn’t meant to. He’ll know what it means. What I have to do – what he has to _let_ me do.”

Quinlan had agreed, at the face, to withhold his mission from his master, as per his instructions.

But Tholme had sworn to follow Quinlan if he left, to put him before the Order, before everything and everyone else, and he would – without hesitation.

Which is why he’d never allow Quinlan to say goodbye, or to slip away, without going after him.

Which made this assignment…tricky.

But he knew Tholme and Tholme knew him well enough that all Quinlan had to do was give him the spaces where the things he couldn’t say would go, and Tholme would figure out. So…he’d written his master a letter, which was uncharacteristic, but not unexpected, given the way events were about to play out.

Quinlan hadn’t anticipated Shmi working out the truth of his farewell, thinking she would merely take it at face value, but perhaps she knew Quinlan better than he’d realized too. Oh, he didn’t think she’d divined his mission, but she had garnered, at least, that all was not as it seemed.

He should probably feel disgruntled, or perhaps sheepish, but all he feels instead is a rush of affection for her, for her trust and understanding.

“Making even the appearance of a choice between us will not console him.” Shmi warns, one hand laid over her growing belly, which soon would not be hid beneath looser and looser tunics, and the other reaching for his. Quinlan jerks his fingers back reflexively, before he flushes a little and twines his fingers in hers. She holds his grasp firmly.

“I know, but it’s the best I can do.” Quinlan says, enjoying the warmth of her grasp. “We’re Jedi. Our duty has to come first.” He believes that, he does. He just doesn’t think he’s actually very good at following it.

Shmi hums, and touches the fingertips of her free hand to her heart, and then her lips, and then lifts them to his brow, the brief touch leaving a lingering echo of the reverence of the gesture. “Mother bless you, Quinlan Vos, and Force be with you.”

Quinlan feels his face flash with warmth. “Yeah.” He murmurs. “Thank you.” He pauses, looking down at her stomach with something wistful tearing at him. He has no illusions that this mission will be anything near to easy or short – he’s not even guaranteed to survive it, given the nature – and that means he’ll likely miss the little one coming into the world, and who knows how long it will be before they ever meet. “Force be with you too.” He adds. “Both of you.”

~*~

Parting with Obi-Wan is both easier and harder. With Obi-Wan there are no secrets, the bond flaring like a beacon between them, which means there are no evasions and half-truths or outright lies.

But that means there is also no hiding the danger, or the fear.

“They’re sending you after the Sith.” Obi-Wan hisses, his hands on Quinlan’s arms, grip almost bruising tight.

“To spy on the Sith.” Quinlan reports. “And I’m not going alone. I’ve got a real Shadow watching my back, and teaching me a few tricks I don’t already know.”

Obi-Wan does not look reassured, blue-green-grey eyes blazing in intensity. “It’s the most dangerous mission any of us have ever had.” He argues.

Quinlan doesn’t flinch. He knows his insecurities – and his strengths. He knows what needs to be done, and he _will_ do it. “It’s what the Jedi _do_.” Quinlan replies. Obi-Wan deflates a little, worry suffusing his aura in the Force, and a clashing mix of pride and loyalty.

“This is what you get for Knighthood, huh?” He smiles weakly.

“You’ll be right in it with me soon enough.” Quinlan’s crooked smile is a little more sure than his friends. Obi-Wan blanches.

“I _just_ made Senior Padawan, Que.” He mutters.

Quinlan shakes his head, baffled as to how Obi-Wan fails to see what he is, and where he’s headed – whether he wants to or not. Quinlan wouldn’t be shocked to find the red-head as the Head of the Order some day, still adorably bewildered as to how that could possible have come about. “You’ll get there.” Quinlan says simply. “Just keep getting better. All of us will just have to keep getting better.”

Faitn embarrassment flees the younger padawans face, and that damnable, inignorable intensity is back. “You’ll come back.” He states firmly, daring the Force and the Galaxy to deny it. “The Sith will not best you.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Quinlan huffs lightly, trying not to get himself dragged into the dread seriousness everyone else seemed to feel about the trials to come. He didn’t need to depress himself any more than he already was, thanks.

Obi-Wan grabs hand, eyes sharp as cut glass. “I mean it, Que.” He insists, voice clear with certainty. “We’ve more battles to win than this one.”

Quinlan shivers as something stirs in the Force like a promise, and even Obi-Wan falters at the faint ring of prophecy in that statement. Quinlan shakes himself and grumbles, squeezing his friends hand. Obi-Wan Kenobi wasn’t a proper seer, but he had a touch of prescience, just enough to have a worrying knack for unexpected fortelling.

“Great.” Quinlan nods, clearing his throat. “Good talk.”

“Sorry.” Obi-Wan mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It happens.” Quinlan shrugs forgivingly.

“Just… be careful, and if you need me-“

“I’m going on a _classified_ mission far _far_ away.” Quinlan snipes.

“If you need me – “ Obi-Wan insists grumpily. ‘ _I’m right here_.’ The bond sings, a brilliant lifeline between them, glowing with power and intent.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, frowning in concentration, and Quinlan feels all the little hairs on his body lift in alarm when a familiar, sparkling brilliance spools through his senses and makes him want to throttle his best friend.

“Do _not_ -“ The kiffar hisses.

“I know.” Obi-Wan retorts, ostenably _not_ attempting to kill himself through sheer foolishness this time, as Quinlan feels an almost searing warmth leech into him, this time accompanied by a heady thrill of power he hadn’t been aware of last time Obi-Wan so compassionately and stupidly did this. “I know what I’m doing now. It’s not going to hurt me.”

Quinlan isn’t sure how much credence to put into that statement, given that Obi-Wan’s pallor fades and sweat touches his brow in a moment, and he seems diminished when he lets go and opens his eyes, but the smile on his face is bright and assured.

Quinlan’s skin is humming, his pulse drumming a beat, and power just pressed into him a lilting, teasing thing coiled up warmly around him like a blessing. His throat is dry and his stomach, however, clenches in knots.

 _He shouldn’t do that_ , part of Quinlan’s mind warns. _He shouldn’t just pour his strength into me_.

Friends, bond-mates, and faith aside – Quinlan holds a quiet terror that Obi-Wan might really kill himself some day, trying to save _him_.

But there is a sharp, unyielding glint on the red-heads gaze, like he knows exactly the thought that just passed through Quinlan’s mind; a promise that he absolutely would, and he’d never forgive Quinlan for getting himself killed trying to keep that from happening.

“Stay alive.” Obi-Wan demands.

“You know me.” Quinlan quips back, and Obi-Wan snorts, looking up like praying for guidance.

“Too well.” The red-head replies dryly. “Force be with you.” He holds out an arm, and Quinlan grasps it, wrist to elbow, the Mandalorian way. “ _Vod_.” He adds intently.

 _Sometimes_ , Quinlan thinks fiercely at his best friend, _I really hate that I love you_. Feeling swells in his chest, and he nods tightly, pissed, because he promised himself he wasn’t going to be _dramatic_ about this. _And that you love me too_.

~*~

The one he hadn’t counted on, at all, was Siri, catching him on his way out the door – literally. He’s striding down the long walk, the absence of his padawan braid itchy, yet not nearly as naked and telling as the absence of his lightsaber – which he had passed into Master Mundi’s hands as he officially ‘resigned’, and, which he had been assured would make its way from Mundi’s hands to Yaddles, to Trips, and back into his own.

His braid he’d left for his Master.

“Quinlan!” She catches sight of him with a shout, and he jerks in surprise, but he can see Master Gallia climbing out of a civilian transport behind her, apparently arguing with the pilot. Siri’s got a vibrant sunburn on her fair skin, which seems to be teasing to turn out a few faint freckles, and a pack half her size strapped to her back, weighed down with who knew what from her last mission. Siri’s crystal blue eyes widen almost comically, and she gasps, picking up her stride. “Your braid! Force gods, Que, did they actually finally _knight_ you?” She seems torn between joy and appall, which he’d find endearing any other day. Today, it just presses an intense headache behind his eyes, and he works out a scowl.

He can do this. It’s fine. They’ll have a great happy screaming row when he gets back, and it will be fine. He’s mastered illusions – this is no different, really. Just an illusion.

“No.” He snaps at her, and she pulls up short, brows drawing sharply up and then down into a puzzled frown, snapping over him in that critical, judgmental way she has that intimidated half the junior padawans.

She takes in the absence of his lightsaber, the simpler, less formal dress, the small satchel slung over his back. He doesn’t look like a Jedi, he knows, because it was an intentional effect. For all intents and purposes, he wasn’t anything more in this moment than a rejection scion of the Order, spurned and spurning in turn.

“They didn’t knight me, Siri.” He draws venom into his tone, bitterness that’s perhaps still too easy to summon, and he lets it fill the Force around him. This is not the intent Healer Weyl-Va had in mind when he coached Quinlan to channel the Force through his feelings in this manner, but… needs must. “They’re _never_ going to knight me.” He sneers, and feels the cold, sharpening touch of the Dark Side well up, sucked into the wake of his emotional draw, feeding into him with promises, promises, of relief, of satisfaction. Quinlan allows it. It’ll make this easier. So much easier, as first affront and then hurt and then outrage fills Siri’s eyes. “I’m leaving.” He finishes, tossing it out derisively.

She doesn’t flinch. She just fires back. “You’re giving up? You can’t!” Siri snaps. “They’re wrong, Que! You can prove it. We can fight this. But not if you just _run away_.”

Quinlan crushes the gladness he feels, that she is so ready to fight for him, and scoffs at her, taking a dangerous step towards the smaller padawan, looming over her like a threat. “You think I’m running away?” Quinlan sneers. “From _what_ , Siri? You think this is _my_ problem? It’s not. It’s _theirs_. The Jedi are the ones who failed. They’re weak, and they’re scared. Me? I’m fine. They don’t want me? So what. I don’t need them. Any of them.”

Hot anger burns blue in her gaze, and a flash of hurt. “What about me?” She asks, her tone wobbling softly, and damn, damnit, damn. Karking hell.

Siri isn’t supposed to get soft, and sad, over _him_.

His lip curls. “What about you?” He spits.

Something in her expression crumbles with hurt and humiliation, and then, well, then she _is_ furious.

“Siri?” Master Gallia calls, coming up behind her, looking irritable and concerned. “Padawan Vos?”

“ _Not_ a Padawan.” Quinlan snaps, letting the Force turn cold and unforiging around him, making the Master shift in alarm. He doesn’t even spare Gallia a glance, still glaring disdainfully down at the blonde, waiting for the backlash, waiting for the spite. “I’m not a Jedi at all.”

He waits. He had shoved. Siri Tachi never failed to shove back.

Siri outdoes herself. Her jaw hardens, her angers turns to icy, bitter fury, and she bows to him with graceful poise, her voice cool and utterly calm.

“I hope you find what you need out there, Quinlan Vos.” She says levelly, crystalline eyes locked on his. “I am sorry you could not find it here with us.”

Quinlan can’t trust his voice.

 _Gut me next time, Siri_ , he thinks numbly. _It’ll be kinder_.

He scoffs, hoping the sound doesn’t betray the slightly hysterical, desperate knot in his throat.

“Force be with you.” Siri whispers, and Quinlan – has to leave. Now.

 _Sith fucking damn it, Siri Tachi_. He thinks, eyes stinging as he shoves past her, nearly knocking her over and getting bruised when he catches her overloaded pack with one arm. _Force forgive me._

He hadn’t wanted to have to confront anyone, hadn’t wanted to have to say goodbye to those he couldn’t explain anything to.

“Save it.” He grinds out, when he doesn’t have to look at her, or Master Gallia, calling back with as much of a sneer in his voice as he can muster. “The Force doesn’t give a damn, and neither do I.”

 _Liar. Liar. Liar_.

Quinlan takes the stairs with more rush and force than is probably necessary, and catches a transport with a snarl at the pilot which is probably utterly undeserved.

 _She’ll forgive me_ , he hopes, staring at the shadows of the temple as the transport pulls away. _She’ll be mad, and we’ll have a screaming row, and she’ll forgive me_.

She probably just won’t like him quite so much after, and Quinlan…. Yeah, Quinlan thinks he’ll regret that.

_I am a Jedi._

_My duty comes first_.

But he gets now, all the Temple warnings of attachments.

Turns out, that when you walk away, they can really, really hurt.

This wasn’t like giving Aayla room to grow without him, wasn’t like trusting Obi-Wan with half his soul, wasn’t like standing on his own without his Master.

With Siri, it was messy and secretive and it felt like betrayal.

But he couldn’t put her and her feelings – or his own – before the needs of the mission. Not with so much at stake.

 _The Sith have been influencing the Order for the last millenia. We don’t know how deep their infiltration goes. We don’t know how much they can see_. Anywhere but the front steps of the Temple, wide out in the open, and he could have been…kinder.

If he finds out it was a set up, that the Council arranged it, after he avoided a public confrontation with his master - and he survives this mission - someone is going to answer for that.

He’d rather have slunk out like a kriffing coward in the middle of the night than humiliated one of his friends in a spectacle like that, cover story or no cover story. That wasn’t fair to either of them.

Quinlan shakes out his thought and stares at the Temple as long as he can. This won’t be his first long mission, but it’s his first long mission without his Master, and… and it’s the first where he really doesn’t know if he’ll come home again.

He closes his eyes and tosses out a prayer.

 _Please, let Obi-Wan be right_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: So, my buir says i need to clarify - i'm busy with National Guard service the next couple weeks, i'm not having a mental breakdown. Still, thank you all so much for your support and patience!


	22. Chapter 22

“Ladies.” Ben greets charmingly, Fay and Yaddle awaiting him in the armory.

“Ben.” Fay returns flirtatiously, eyeing him up and down.

“Master Naasade.” Yaddle dips her head, and Ben bows respectfully.

He straightens. “Shall we then?” He entreats, offering to escort them to the vault in the back.

Fay and Yaddle share a glance, and then Fay lifts a pointed brow at him. Ben sighs, clears his throat, and turns over his shoulder.

“Padawan Keeto, you are not permitted to be in here.” He calls.

There is a quiet sworn “blast!” and a shuffle and the dark haired girl appears, along with her auburn haired friend Leska, and Leska’s orange-skinned brother-padawan Ravage, all looking a varied mix of sheepish, thrilled, and put out. Ah, to be young and adventurous.

“How far were you going to let them get?” Fay steps up to question quietly, amused.

“Oh, at least until someone made a proper mistake. They _were_ being quite stealthy. It’s good practice.” Ben replies.

Yaddle swats his ankle with her walking stick, turning narrowed eyes up at him. “A playground, the armory is not.”

“We’re sorry, Masters.” The padawans all bow respectfully, though Ravage fidgets. “We were just curious.”

Serra Keeto pops back up first. “Can you tell us what’s back there? Master Drallig wouldn’t say.”

“Perhaps because it isn’t for you to know?” Ben replies pointedly.

“But I’m the Battlemaster’s padawan.” She replies without compunction.

He credits her for her boldness, if not her manners. “Padawan Keeto, in so far as I am aware, _the Battlemaster_ has forbidden you from entering the armory without escort.”

“But you’re here.” She blurts. “So technically…”

“Ah, technically.” Ben nods wisely, while Fay hides a wider and wider smile beneath a hand. “ _Technically_ , these two don’t have permission at all, and that is twice the trouble you’ve landed yourselves in, hm? Or would it be thrice?”

“Oh, I think thrice.” Fay chimes in, nodding. “I’m certain their master’s will quite agree. Or perhaps, given the circumstances, their master’s might simply turn their discipline over to you?” She suggests.

Keeto and Leska both blanch, and Ravage just looks confused and a little worried. He looks at his friends faces and gets more worried.

“Perhaps.” Ben nods sagely. “And perhaps this entire affair will simply slip my mind should they take themselves back where they belong with good haste.” He lifts a brow. They blink at him blankly for a beat, and then Padawan Leska gets it, grabs her friends, and bolts. Ben shakes his head after them.

“Troublesome, are padawans.” Master Yaddle remarks, a touch of wry resigned fondness in her tone. “A game, some matters are _not_.”

“Perhaps, but they are young.” Fay replies. “The young ought to be allowed some of their games.”

“Hmph. Like roving gardens, hm? Four times now, has a maze been built around Master Yoda’s quarters. Delay him, they do, as go over them, he refuses to.” She grumbles.

Fay snorts, and Ben grins. “Master Yaddle, if you think that was the _younglings_ doing, you are gravely mistaken.” He won’t name names, but he’s fairly certain at least one of the culprits sits on the Council. Oh, the younglings move the potted gardens plenty – but that just gives their elders an easy misdirection for blame.

Yaddle closes her eyes and shakes her head, ambling to the vault. Fay shares a look with Ben and snickers.

Their easy amusement flees when they enter the vault, and a chill swirls around them like a tease. Oh yes, Ben would most definitely say that he woke something up – and it certainly feels like they have its’ attention now. Fay stiffens, turning a pallor, and the youthful looking woman grinds her jaw. Yaddle’s eyes fix on the mask as she steps forward, and settles herself to the floor. Ben joins her, lowering carefully down to his knees, and Fay stays where she is, legs locked in rigid tension, her arms tightly crossed but her feet balanced like the best of soldiers.

Half the Reconciliation Council had been for destroying the potential Sith holcron (as if Ben could not positively identify such a thing himself, but he doesn’t hold the judgement against Mundi or Fisto. Sometimes, skepticism was merely a prelude to greater certainty.) or taking it to the holocron vaults and burying it with the other dark relics too dangerous to touch.

But if this was a holocron, it was no adaptive intelligence data storage device, but in fact a direct link to the half-trapped shade of some long dead Sith. Introducing it to the others could be a terrible mistake. Introducing it to _themselves_ could prove…well, there was potential, in speaking with the Sith of Old, that they might discover something to aid them against the New Sith. But potential to good or ill…

Yaddle had been the deciding vote. They were willing to _try_.

Ben settles himself, drawing out the shields of his mind, and the battlefield he’s made of them, wary of a similar encounter like his last. A storm builds, a thousand screaming, teeming currents, shot through with bolts and thunderheads of power and overwhelming, untamed emotional intent, raging over a field of mirages and half-truths, a shifting waste hiding life and shadow below, just as like to give you what you sought as it was to suck you in to your own destruction.

Ben’s real mind was a dangerous place.

Yaddle settles with much more subtlety, and brushes the edges of his awareness before drawing back, sensing the traps laid for anyone straying too close. Fay knows better than to reach towards him at all, and instead waits for him to reach out, and joins him there.

It is Ben, they have decided, that will make contact, with Yaddle and Fay to guard him and bear witness.

It was Ben, after all, who woke it up in the first place.

Personally, Ben believes Yaddle’s reasoning is far less blase than that – Yaddle trusts his word, which relieves him greatly, but as the Master of Shadows it is still her responsibility to test the Masters of the Order, to judge their actions and their efforts and to seek out where they may be wanting. In the times ahead, he imagines she will test them all more than ever, to ensure none are vulnerable to the snares of the Sith.

And he is sure that this serves, in part, as his own test. Possibly as one of several. Some tests are easy to spot, others…well, sometimes it is far more effective if those under scrutiny are unaware that they are, in fact, being tested.

There is an awareness to the holocron now, a sense of expectant waiting that he can feel, reaching out to it. It is a cold, dark pit in the Force, a well that sinks deeper and deeper, beyond where the living can go. Around that pit is a wound, livid and still bleeding, more than a millenia after death. And in that wound is raw despair and seething hatred. Ben barely skims around the entity, and still the potency of it lashes at him. He draws back, prepared to hold there, prepared to wait.

“I cannot yet decide if you are brave and well-mannered, or merely foolish yet charming.” The voice is low, for a womans voice, something both amused and disdainful in her tone.

Ben opens his eyes to see – well, more of a ghost than he ever expected to see. Modern understanding was that an individual sense of self did not truly exist after death, that one passed into the Force and became _other_ , leaving only echoes and memories behind for the living. But that was not the old beliefs. And Ben was still learning that there was far more reality to the old beliefs of distant legend than perhaps any of them, himself included, would be comfortable with.

There is a strange and unsettling blue-violet hue around her form. She sits cross-legged across from him, her posture rigid, frayed, faded Mirialan scarves looped over her hair and shoulders, stitches right to the pale mask, the ghostly origin of the tarnished object behind her. Phosphorous yellow eyes gleam out from the center of the dark, jeweled bursts of the mask, like the corona of an eclipse inverted.

Fay stiffens, and Ben can feel her upset surprise, which hardens quickly into grim acceptance. “… Lady Darth.” Fay greets flatly.

Black anger flickers over a cold gaze. “You may address me as Lady Livion.” The mirialan shade seethes harshly.

Fay arches an unimpressed brow.

Phospherous eyes flick to the side in disdain. “I am no Sith.” The shade spits. “Sith desire power for power’s sake - a cheap and pitiable goal for the arrogant and fearful. I want nothing so _petty_.” 

“What did you want?” Ben inquires softly, with a cautious respect. Yellow eyes light on him, and her chill anger turns to frosty, coy familiarity.

“ _You_ could guess.” She says tauntingly, and Ben can imagine the twist of a dark-lipped mouth. “I can all but _taste_ the same wants in you.”

Ben does not like that assessment.

“I want peace.” Ben refutes, but the blunt weariness drawn out of his tone is a flaw in his guard.

The mirialan’s eyes narrow. “A half-truth, perhaps.” She asses, almost pityingly. Her gaze flickers to either side, and her form blinks out and back again, this time she is standing on her feet, arms crossed. A ghost should cast no shadow, but Ben can see the darkness in the room clinging to her outline. “And what do the Jedi want? And why do they think I should give it to them?”

Fay does not reply, glaring back with grudging temperance, but Yaddle shifts, rising to her feet more out of formality than any advantage of height – which she would never have. “A Jedi, you once were, were you not?” Yaddle turns her face up, sage and assessing.

Lady Livion stares down at her for a long moment, and then reaches up with a pale green hand, nails painted dark but cracked with ruin, and the mask slips away like mist, revealing a finely wrinkled Mirialan face, diamond tattoos running down the center of her brow, scars running through them like she’d tried to scratch them out of her skin. Fay’s shields tighten reflexively – a flinch in the Force.

“I was.” Livion replies, a detached, distant sort of sadness in her tone, but a burning, accusing rigidness on her face. “I gave half my life to the Jedi. I gave them my service, and my faith. And the Jedi failed us still.”

She turns, running a ghostly touch through the transparisteel display, trailing over the pair of sabers, over the red marriage cored paired between them. “We were true to the Jedi. We fought with pride, we were honorable, and merciful, and just. We were everything Jedi should have been.” She looks at Ben a gleam of madness in her eyes that calls to him. That looks at him and sees the echo of itself. Ben resists the urge to flinch, and stares steadily back. _We are not alike_ , he tells himself. _I would never_.

“Do you know what betrayed me?” She asks, toying with the question, her gaze drifting off of him and on to none of them in particular. “What will betray you?” She inquires, and Ben can feel her power, leeching at the air, can feel her spirit, prying at his, teasing at him the way a black hole teases a sun to collapse. “ _Grief_.” She utters, glancing at him.

“I gave everything I could give to the Jedi.” Her tone hardens, and her gaze lights back down on Yaddle, rife with pain and fury. “Everything except my heart. And that – that, the Sith took. The Jedi, the Sith? What do I care for either? They took _everything_ , and left a void. Left me only with the real understanding that there was nothing more for me in existence.”

She laughs, and Ben’s skin crawls, because he’s heard that dreadful, harsh and ragged sound spill out of his own throat, choking helplessly on his own utter failure.

“I understood, at last. What real power is, what the victor, is.” He phospherous eyes blaze, and the mask reappears, stealing over any echo of the person she might have once been. Her attention now is solely for Ben, as if Fay and Yaddle, both bristling at the turn and focus of topic, weren’t present at all. “You know, don’t you? It’s that empty waste, at the end of everything. The ultimate culmination of all our faith and all our failures.” Her voice turns soft, both superior and hollow. “I will see it. I will stand there, in the ashes of the universe, and I _will_ have satisfaction.”

“You will have there exactly what you have here and now.” Ben refutes in denial, angered. “Just the failure and bitter loneliness of your own wretched existence.” He shakes his head, mind whirling as he stares her down and she flaunts her torment back at him. “Your soul is still screaming.” Ben utters honestly, still feeling that cry scrape the back of his skull. “I think you have spent so long in agony that you _need_ it now, as much as you hate it. I think you are trapped, and that you build the trap yourself.”

Hate lights her eyes, all kindred familiarity leeched away. Ben doesn’t stop there.

“And that is all you will have and all you will be until you accept your pain instead of feeding it. You could heal, and you could have it back, all of it, in the Force-“

Lady Livion shifts sharply and scoffs, disappearing and reappearing beside him like a cold breath, hissing into his face.

“Don’t be so naive. Don’t you get it? That is a _lie_!” She lashes out, figure coiling as if she forgot she were no longer flesh and blood, as if she would lunge and claw at him like an animal if she were solid. “I tried, I tried to find her. I did everything in my power, and then I gained more power, and more power, and _our dead are not there_.”

“They _have_ to be.” Ben snaps back, voice rising. He has to have hope that he’ll see them again, when all this is done, when it’s over. It all has to be _worth_ something, doesn’t it?

“Ben.” Fay says softly, a warning not to be drawn in.

Lady Livion cackles, taking a step back and turning to face the older master. “Oh, tell him Master Fay. Make him promises you know will never be fulfilled. How many of your students went into the Force? How many friends and lovers? How many have you seen since? All your power, all your years, was your faith ever rewarded?”

Fay refuses to acknowledge the dead woman, mist grey eyes staring past the shade, watching Ben.

“Persuaded, you cannot be?” Master Yaddle interjects, drawing the intensity of Lady Livion’s presence towards herself to offer Ben a respite to steel himself. He knows better than to be goaded like this. He ought to.

But then, if he weren't capable of being goaded, he would not have made such attractive bait.

“Oh, and you would be… Master Dago’s successor, I presume?” Livion turns, looking Yaddle over with cold regard, and an odd touch of reluctance. “That question has a leading feel to it. Do reach your point, will you? What do you think you have to offer that could persuade _me_?”

“Rising again, are the Sith.” Yaddle remarks.

“Yes. So?” She remarks tauntingly, waiting for the plea she knows must be coming. Yaddle’s lips thin, but more at the other womans manners than at any perceived insult to her pride.

“Power, the Sith hold, or the Sith destroy.” Yaddle remarks. “If win, they do, command you, or erase you, the Sith will seek to.”

“I know what the Sith do.” Lady Livion replies dryly, but something changes in her countenance, as she studies the diminutive woman before her, a Jedi prepared to _negotiate_ with the likes of her. “I’d be careful, if I were you.”

Fay and Ben both glance at each other, cautiously hopeful and surprised, though a cruel light enters the shade’s eyes at her own advice. “What you can turn yourself into to is often far worse than anything the Sith could ever do.”

She vanishes, and the three Jedi watch empty air for a blank moment.

“You are so _close_.” A whisper tickles his ear, hair-raising and unwelcome, and Ben tenses, feeling his blood freeze. “With time, perhaps you’ll see.” A ghostly touch drifts along his hairline, intimate and caustic. “A pity.” A sigh, and then the shade is well and truly gone.

‘ _See what_?’ Ben projects warily, though Lady Livion’s presence has faded and slipped away.

“Well, that got us absolutely nothing.” Fay remarks irritably, oblivious to Ben’s disquiet.

“Too old, you are, to be so impatient.” Yaddle grumbles. “Affirmation, we received. An interest, taken, was. Try again, we shall. Another time.

Fay sighs, shaking her head, and beneath her impatience Ben can see the shadow of guilt.

“You knew her.” He states gently, rising to his feet and finding his skin chilled, his body reluctant to move. Even his senses feel raw, battered as they were by Lady Livion’s violent presence. “You recognized her face.”

“When she was a Knight. I didn’t know her well, but we shared a campaign or two.” Fay turns, rubbing her arms for warmth or comfort, and eagerly steps away from the mask and sabers. “I didn’t know she had….” Fay shakes her head, golden hair drifting loosely.

“Miraj Unsee and her wife, Palma…” Fay looks away from him, strained. “I’ve seen it, a few times over the centuries. Two or three jedi so perfectly attuned, so naturally _connected_ …it isn’t just as if they were inseparable as a team, but they were inseparable as people.” Sorrow and yearning color her tone, but it fades with a sigh, let go of with practice. “One would never be complete without the other, but when they were together, when they were whole…” She looks up, looking into the past with a respectful awe that ran deep. Her lips twitch in a faint, rueful smile. “Nothing and no one compared.” She looks at him with a knowing compassion in her gaze, and Ben looks away.

“Oh.” Ben remarks quietly, sealing the door as Yaddle shuffles out, a quiet, cold ache in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: So i kind of had that breakdown i said i wasn't going to have, on top of my military exersizes. But i'm good now. Thank you all for your patience!!!


	23. Chapter 23

“Have you ever considered,” Ben inquires, reaching to shift a strand of her golden hair, “ adding a touch of grey?”

Fay glowers at him in beleaguered offense, looking rumpled and unprepared for the day. It wasn’t _that_ early. She leans in the doorway to her quarters and yawns into the palm of one hand.

“The only beings concerned with my age would be my fellow Jedi, who actually know how old I am. The rest of the galaxy cares little about it, and so neither do I.” She remarks, and invites him in, her unkempt hair drifting on static.

“You don’t ever get aggrieved at being treated like the youth you appear to be?”

She offers a lazy smirk, shaking her head. “Why would I?” She lifts a brow. “Young women get flattered far more often.”

Ben chuckles at that, and Fay rifles around in her kitchen for a moment before thrusting a few things in his hands, turning on the caf carafe, and disappearing back into her room, leaving him to make breakfast.

It takes him a minute or two to figure out what, exactly, he’ll be making, given what she’s handed him, but it comes together as a sort of rich breakfast soup.

“So what has you knocking at my door this morning?” Fay inquires, reappearing just as he’s pouring bowls. “Usually this goes the other way around.”

Ben smiles faintly. “You’ve been a good friend, especially when I find myself struggling. I would like, if you’re agreeable, to return the favor.” He offers gently, holding out a bowl for her to take. Fay accepts it, inhaling the scent with a smile that shifting the pattern of vine on the edge of her cheek. Her mist grey eyes look up at him appreciatively.

“I spent at least a lifetime reconciling what I – what we all – had done. A lifetime teaching myself how to live with it. How to let go of it.” Fay murmurs, looking away. “And days like yesterday still…” She sighs, shaking her head.

In the moment, she had been very reserved, her focus on concern for him, but Ben had sensed a sort of melancholy trepidation, when she’d left his company, and it had him worrying over her into the night and this morning. In the moment, any of them could be brave; it was after, when thoughts and feelings were allowed to settle, allowed to linger and burrow in, that he knew could shake people like them.

Ben dips his head in understanding. “The past never actually stays in the past, does it?” He offers in rueful sympathy and understanding.

“Hm.” Fay tips her head back. “It would be so much easier if it did, wouldn’t it?”

~*~

“Siri, violence!” Obi-Wan barks sharply, trotting down the corridor to pull her off the senior padawan she’d just slammed into a wall for gossiping illy of Quinlan’s split from the Jedi.

“Padawan Kenobi. Padawan Tachi.” The older padawan nods tartly and adjusts their robes sharply before leaving, their pale-pallored friend casting both of the younger padawans a wary look over their shoulder as they go.

Siri growls and shoves Obi-Wan off. “Siri.” He clenches his jaw, this being one of several incidents over the last several days.

“Leave off, Obi-Wan.” She snaps, moving to push past him.

“Siri!” He snaps back, grabbing her by the shoulders. “You can’t keep acting like this.” She tries to shove him again and he refuses to budge, which leads to her slamming an angry fist into his chest – which _hurts_ , because he doesn’t have his chest-plate on and for a young woman of her size, Siri was a _brute_.

“I know!” She grits out, crystal blue eyes narrowed in frustration, smudged underneath with tiredness or tears. Obi-Wan risks another painful hit and moves from trying to subdue her to just holding her. Her chin drops sharply on his shoulder and she heaves a bitter sigh. “I know.” She repeats. “But it’s not-“ Her voice tightens. “It’s not fair. He was doing _better_.”

Obi-Wan swallows tightly, a little flustered. “Yeah.” He says simply, because he knows he’s not supposed to say anything more than that. “I know.”

“He really helped me, Obi.” Siri mutters, leaning into him. “I wanted to help him, I wanted the chance to return the favor. I….” She trails off miserably, and Obi-Wan can feel her face heat, her cheek a hairswidth from his own skin. “I have such a crush on him too. Which is dumb.” She sniffles sharply, as if trying to convince him it’s only a sniff. “We’d have been terrible, with our tempers.”

He chuffs, which makes her chuff, albeit more miserably, and she pulls back, scrubbing angrily at her face before forcing her arms down and her posture up.

“This isn’t any of our faults, Siri.” Obi-Wan says, wishing he could explain everything.

She glares back at him, both understanding and too stubborn to give in. “But it feels like it, doesn’t it? I just - I don’t know. He should _be_ here. He’s _not_ what they say he is. He can’t be. Even if…” Her expression twists. “Even if he deserves a beating for what he said to me!” She flushes, angry with recollection. She looks up at Obi-Wan for confirmation, and he struggles, not knowing what to give her, what to say, what he can say.

He agrees with her, with everything, but…

“Quinlan did his best for us, Siri.” Obi-Wan says, looking away out of shame. “Sometimes that’s not always enough.”

“That’s banthashite and you know it.” She seethes, taking a step back. “What is _wrong_ with you? I thought _you’d_ fight more for him than all of us.”

Obi-Wan feels his ears turn red and he clenches his fists. “I-“ He bites his tongue, grinding down on his anger. He takes a step back, for good measure, because Siri Tachi knew how to hit, be it physically or emotionally.

He wants to tear his hair out, or throw up, or go shout at whoever came up with this terrible plan to send Quinlan after the Sith, and he can’t do any of those things, but he _doesn’t_ want to fight with Siri, and that _is_ what he’s doing, and nothing about it is fair.

His hand aches, and he just- _hates_ this, so much. “Could you be less _selfish_?!” Obi-Wan demands. He’s been trying to look out for her, because she’s doesn’t know the real reason why Quinlan left, why he behaved the way he did, and she’s been hurting, but did she have to take it out on _him_? He missed Quinlan too! And he was terrified for him! And he knew the truth, and he had to listen to everything everyone said about the fallen padawan, and he couldn’t _say_ anything -

And he doesn’t want to take it out on Siri any more than she probably wants to be taking it out on him. “Just sort yourself out, Siri.” He mutters sharply, removing himself before they really start to lay into each other. If she ends up under discipline… he’s _not_ responsible for her. “I’ll see you later.”

“ _Fine_. Whatever.” She bites out, but she also draws back, realizing they’ve both struck a nerve, and her face flushes brighter, the Force coloring with a tinge of shame.

Obi-Wan’s anger flares, but he grinds his jaw and stalks away.

 _Quinlan Vos_ , Obi-Wan thinks fiercely, _you’d better come back and make this all worth it_!

~*~

Rolling the ExploraCorps journeyman bead between her fingers, Shmi smiles, twisting her braid in the process. A tailed comet in purple encircles the gold and blue engraved cube of a holocron, adding a small weight to her braid, and the feel of it, the reminder of her progress, has pride welling up in her chest. It’s still a new enough feeling that it is as strange as it is delightful, and she cherishes it fiercely.

“Padawan Skywalker.”

Shmi rises from the bench as the young mirialan approaches and bows politely in turn. “Padawan Unduli.” She greets.

“Congratulations on passing your journeyman levels.” The younger woman adds, royal blue eyes alighting on the bead.

“Thank you.” Shmi settles back down, and invites the other Senior Padawan to sit, but they are not long kept waiting after that, meeting Master Ti, Master Gallia, and Chairman Concazzi of the ExploraCorps after their afternoon council session. The masters escort them from the newly remodeled Grand Council chamber to the Small Council chamber, which used to be the old High Council Chamber, where they are joined by a slightly tardy Master Vumoyo, who greets his padawan with perfect cordiality, but no small degree of fondness. Padawan Unduli greets her master with equal serenity, as was the reserved way of the mirialan people.

Shmi can’t quite help but try and tighten her posture and suck her stomach in under the gravitas scrutiny of Master Gallia and the lazy, dry assessment of Chairman Concazzi.

“Padawan Skywalker, Padawan Unduli.” Master Gallia begins, “ As you may be aware, recent policy changes have made the traditional tasks of a Senior Padawan transitioning to knighthood more difficult to undertake. As necessary, there have been adjustments and exceptions made. However, one such critical undertaking is the ability and experience to operate independently as a figure of authority in the field. On this matter, I have been convinced to…compromise.” The tholotian master remarks, looking more resigned than grudging about the fact. “Given your circumstances and your accomplishments, we –“ She gestures to her peers. “ -have come to an agreement on an acceptable assignment to provide you with much needed experience, and this body with necessary proof of your capabilities as Jedi.”

Shmi glances to her master, but Shaak’s proud face and serene silver eyes give nothing away.

“Chairman Concazzi?” Master Gallia prompts the corellian journeyman, who twitches a little before leaning forward, adjusting controls on his display until a holomap of a star system appears.

“This system here, Sathas, and their neighbor Dol Moranda have reached out to the Jedi regarding this region of space here.” He gestures to a curving band of emptiness between two holo-mapped systems. “Ostensibly, it’s neutral territory, providing a nice buffer zone between formerly enemy states. In a rather unexpected movement of progress, the two systems recently signed a new treaty allowing exploration for the potential of resource development in the uncharted space. However, tensions are rising after survey teams returned claiming sabotage, and recently, some have gone missing outright. Now, to be clear, neither system is looking to go to war. Rather, their interest lies in receiving the most concession from the opposing side, be it monetary compensation for treaty violations or a larger advantage in territory and resource negotiations once surveying is complete.” He pauses, looking to both the padawans.

Shmi studies the map thoughtfully. “Why has the region not been surveyed?” She inquires. It’s outer mid rim, not wild space, and the region isn’t particularly large.

Chairman Concazzi smirks a little. “Aside from the long abandoned traps set by either side during their age of war, there’s a star forming cluster in this area,” He gestures vaguely to a grid portion of the map, marked as a nebula, “ which casts irregular spacial anomalies, and a star collapsed not long after their armistance in this region here at the other end. Between the difficulty in the terrain and the chance of reigniting conflict, neither systems has done an in-depth survey in over four hundred years.”

Meaning any old maps were dangerously inaccurate. Shmi nods, accepting the information respectfully.

“Now, had they reached out to us a little sooner, this would have been a shiny little escort mission for a survey team.” He adds. “But now that it’s gotten all _diplopolitically complicated_ – “ He drawls, and Master Gallia glowers at him for the derision. “ - it’s no longer purely an ExploraCorps assignment.”

“What is the exact scope of our assignment?” Padawn Unduli inquires.

Master Gallia takes back over before Chairman Concazzi can open his mouth again.

“You are to review the terms of the treaty and investigate any violations in regards to interference with either systems surveyors; trace and retrieve, if possible, the missing survey teams; and, should no drastic measures need be taken, assist Sathas and Dol Moranda in completing a navigational survey of the uncharted region.” Master Gallia states. “Further details will be transmitted to your personal comms. At the moment, do either of you elect to decline this assignment, or hold reservations as to the nature of this assignment or your own capabilities?”

“No, Master Gallia.” Shmi replies, and Padawan Unduli echoes her.

“Very well.” The young Master nods, looking as though she, however, may have reservations. “Then let me simply follow up with this; If at any time you suspect their may be more to this situation than the Order is aware, than you are capable of handling, you will recall for assistance. As much as I wish you success, I wish for you to come home safe.”

Shmi and Padawan Unduli share a concerned glance, but both nod resolutely.

Master Gallia stares them both down but eventually dismisses them. Master’s Ti and Vumoyo promise to catch up later this evening, and Padawan Unduli catches Shmi by the elbow.

“Padawan Skywalker, would you like to join me for tea while we look over the details?” She offers. Shmi looks over the polite younger woman and nods agreeably. It would be best to get to know each other better, if they were being sent off into the galaxy with only the other to rely on.

“I would.” Shmi replies with a smile, feeling… _excited_ , as well as apprehensive. She resists the urge to lay a hand over her stomach, and her chest flutters. An echo of those feelings reside in Padawan Undulis royal blue eyes, the responsibility of being not only a Padawan Learner, but a rising Jedi Knight settling in. “And please, you may address me as Shmi.”

“Thank you, Pa – Shmi.” The mirialan tips her head a little, and smiles, lifting a hand to lay over her own chest. “Feel equally free to address me as Luminara.”

 _I rather think I like her_ , Shmi considers, and nods.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: I finally got some sleep, so here's a chapter.

Luminara thinks it is sweet, but perhaps a little harrowing, to watch Shmi Skywalker part from her sons. It turns them into odd contrasts of themselves – typically bold Anakin Skywalker turning shy and melancholy, typically demure Jax Pavan turning insistent for one last moment of attention.

Luminara’s own farewell with her master was a much simpler, more cordial affair, but she preferred it that way, she thinks – walking away without any flush of emotion other than her master’s quiet pride and trust in her.

In fact, she is perhaps far more worried over him than he is of her. It is not that her master lacks competency in any way, it’s just… she fears he finds himself lonely, without her. And he can be absent-minded, on the day to day spectrum.

Still ,she shakes her head at her own worries. He is a wise and experienced Jedi Master, and he did quite well for himself long before she ever came along, and will continue to do so long after.

But he is still _her_ master.

Padawan Skywalker’s vessel is intriguing, and Luminara familiarizes herself with the modified transport as best she can while Shmi finishes her goodbyes. The renamed _Red Bird_ is so personally and experimentally redesigned Luminara isn’t confident she herself could fly it without guidance, but she does admire the craft.

The trip to the Sathas/ Dol Moranda systems takes about a day and a half, and Luminara is duly concerned over how much ginger tea Padawan Skywalker drinks, and the slightly queasy tinge to her pallor, but Shmi insists she is fine, no matter how many times she visits the ‘fresher. Luminara frowns, wondering if Shmi isn’t inclined to hyperspace sickness – though that was usually a condition found in species with extrasensory organs – but resolves not to pester the older woman. Shmi is surely experienced enough to know her own limits, and Luminara will trust her.

They have been directed to a neutral space station outside the narrowest edge of the uncharted region, just beyond any dangerous space anomalies, where the Sathas and Dol Moranda peoples have sent their envoys.

The Sathas envoy was comprised of a mix of human and shistavanen members, the towering, lupine species towering either protectively or condescendingly over their smaller, less imposing companions, whereas the Dol Moranda party was made up entirely of tall, reptilian duros, though the Dol Moranda system was also a mixed-race system, comprised mostly of aquatic species.

Their welcome was… interesting. Every sentence seemed contrived to highlight righteousness or undermine the opposition, and to be honest – Luminara and Shmi spoke little, watching the envoys engage in move and countermove, vicious barb for subtle slight for feigned concern. It became quickly apparent to both Jedi that they would accomplish far more if they engaged with the envoys separately, and devised a plan to part ways.

Luminara eyes the duros representatives, having elected to tackle this situation from the Dol Moranda side while Shmi takes the Sathas system in hand. Flat red eyes watch her calculatively in turn, and the mirialan padawan bows respectfully under their suspicious gazes.

“Jedi Padawan Luminara Unduli, at your service.” She greets, lowering hands back to her sides and straightening her posture. “I am pleased to accept your escort, gentlemen. Shall we discuss Dol Moranda’s terms of the treaty?”

It can be difficult to track a duros’ gaze, but Luminara sense their attention flicker to the Sathas envoys across the room, where Shmi is making similar greetings.

A thin-lipped, unpleasantly reluctant smile touches the Dol Moranda’s chancellor’s face, and his dark blue hands press together idly. “Perhaps the Jedi would wish to rest before preceeding?”

“I am not here to rest.” Luminara replies simply. “I am here to work, and I would like to get started.”

There is a slight pause, and those dark blue fingers twitch slightly.

“So it seems.” He replies, with the same diplomatic veneer. “Very well.”

~*~

“I don’t think it’s actually fire.” Ben remarks. He, Mace, and Master Plo currently occupy one of the temple’s many private meditation rooms, the ceiling a golden transparisteel dome with an opaque exterior, disguising the fact that it was actually within the heart of the Temple, and not under the open sky. Master’s spent entire lifetimes in the Temple, and yet, each had their own collection of these rooms which they knew of, and friends had different ones, and there were still so many to discover. Part of their multitude was convenience – who knew when one might have a thought or idea which bore further meditation, and ones quarters or the gardens could be very far away, and part of it was making use of space which had been inconvenienced by renovations and could serve little other purpose.

Mace had never seen this particular room before, but Master Plo had rather a fondness for it, and had suggested the meeting place.

“I would hope not, considering.” Mace snipes grumpily, looking disturbed as he observes the flare of emerald green flames dancing over Ben’s palm – and the churning snarl of his friends Force presence behind it.

Ben flashes him a look, and continues, blue-grey eyes frowning intensely over his own efforts. “It’s not as draining as Emerald Lightning, and I have more control, but it’s…. slipperier, in a way. I thought perhaps it was emotion converted into pure energy, but… I think I was mistaken.” He turns his hand, and the fair moves eerily, as if passing through his flesh, rather than around it. “I think that transference I’m sensing is not the end result so much as… the state of being required to touch…. _this_.”

Master Plo hums thoughtfully. “You speak of it as if it is not the Force.”

“Perhaps it isn’t.” Ben suggests, sweat trickling down the edge of his beard. “Or if it is, it’s no part of the Force we’ve ever known. Or… or a part we’ve forgotten.” He corrects himself, looking troubled. The flames fade, flickering stubbornly, but his distraction has cost him, and the fire fades away. Ben sighs, sagging. “But the Sith haven’t.”

“You swore before you showed it to me that it was _not_ a Sith technique.” Mace mutters, lifting a forboding brow.

“And it isn’t.” Ben retorts huffily. “Merely…similar, and the Master of Vapaad has no right to criticize anyone on that front.”

“I wasn’t-“ Mace cuts himself off, scowling. “I was merely providing caution.”

Ben snorts and wipes the sweat from his brow, cinnamon colored hair shading to auburn where it dampened.

Mace fidgets, plucking at his sleeve in consternation. “Still, I don’t see it having a practical application among the Jedi.” He can’t help but add warily. He was quite supportive of the Shadow Fold, of them learning these new skills, but some things… some things, he believed, went too far. Some things were better left to theory.

Ben gives him a flat look. “It has it’s place in magics, Mace, but no, I wasn’t thinking of teaching our Jedi how to use it, but how to _defend_ themselves against it.” He says defensively. Mace looks him over, nodding in reluctant agreement at the reasoning in that. It helps that Ben’s presence is slowly calming, though it was still in a state.

To be fair on that front, Master Naasade has not had the best of weeks, between dealing with Padawan Skywalkers upset children, Quinlan Vos’s upset friends, and his own tribulations. Apparently, he’d even had an argument with Master Yaddle, and they had not parted cordially.

Whatever it was, Ben had at least had to foresight to have it right before attending a session with his healer, and so Mace left it be. If his friend wished to discuss it, he would bring the matter up with Mace in his own time.

“You truly expect our people to face the Sith directly.” Master Plo states gravely, something sad and hard in his tone at once, rumbling beneath the mask. “Even with all we have done and are trying to do.”

Ben sighs, looking down. “I’ve _lived_ through our future, and day by day I am still confronted with how much of it I do not know.”

Mace can’t quite help the scoff that bursts out of him, and he reached over, laying a hand on his friends armored shoulder. “Welcome to the world as it is for the rest of us, my friend.”

Ben blinks, looking caught off guard, and then laughs quietly at himself, laying a hand over his face. “Was I whining?” He inquires ruefully, and for a glimpse, Mace can see his padawan in him.

“I wouldn’t say-“ Mace hedges politely.

“Yes.” Master Plo replies succinctly, cutting through Mace’s equivocation.

Ben laughs, something loosening up in his shoulders and in his presence. “My deepest, humble apologies.” He drawls amusedly.

Mace shakes his head, wondering _why_ he is so fond of someone so exasperating, and Master Plo rumbles his own humor. “I believe you can be forgiven.”

“I appreciate your magnanimity.” Ben smirks.

“Please stop.” Mace addressed the both of them, rubbing at his brow with his fingertips. They turn on him with amused looks, and it takes no small amount of will to refrain from his own smile. He isn’t going to reward them for their teasing.

He isn’t.


	25. Chapter 25

“Disciple Chun.” A master calls out to him, and Bruck freezes.

He feels like he’s going to lose his mind. It used to be, when a master paid him any attention, his heart would race, hope and excitement bubbling up as he tried to school his expression and straighten his posture. Now, his heart pounds for an entirely different reason, and his gut squirms, and he’s scared to look them in the eye.

He'd done as Xanatos had asked, sneaking into the archives and plugging in the little data device, and ever since, he’d felt a terrible dread about being caught and cast out of the Temple, no matter how much Xanatos assured him it had been harmless.

Xanatos had been proud of him, and at the time, Bruck had been reassured, with Xanatos praising him and showing him the next set of saber forms, even letting him practice with Du Crion’s own saber. Bruck had missed having a real saber to practice with. The training sabers just… didn’t feel right, anymore. Xanatos told him it was because his power was beyond a training sabers yield, but he wasn’t so sure. Not when he was on his own, at least, and he was on his own a lot.

His skin crawled sometimes, sitting in class and realizing just how….out of place, he felt. Madame Nu had stepped in to lecture a class and he’d felt sick when she’d praised him for correctly answering a question. Master Sinube had stopped him in the corridor and Bruck had nearly jolted out of his skin, terrified that what he’d done had been discovered by the JudiCorps, that he was going to be punished.

But Master Sinube had apologized for startling him, and merely inquired what Bruck thought of the changes in the curriculum, as someone who had studied under both the old and the new.

Bruck doesn’t really remember what he’d actually said, but afterwards he’d just felt…. ashamed. But he didn’t know what to do, and the only person he could really talk to was Xanatos.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to Xanatos.

But he also didn’t think he _could_ talk to anyone else. Not without, not without them finding out, and then… and then…

He didn’t want to think about it. He looks up at the crechemaster who’d called out to him and schools his expression.

“Yes, master?” He inquires, bowing courteously.

“I apologize for the abruptness, but would you be willing to fill in as an instructor for my clan’s introduction to Ataru? Our padawan instructor was rather abruptly assigned to a mission, and I’d rather not cancel on my clan again. It’s slotted for this afternoon.”

“Ataru?” Bruck frowns, puzzled.

“You are in the classes for Force Structures, aren’t you?” The crechemaster inquries. “It’s understood that Ataru is a prerequisite.”

Bruck pauses, uncertain. He’s decent at Ataru, but he doesn’t specialize in it and… and Ataru is only a prerequisite for Combat Force Structuring, which is the advanced lessons, and he… he’s skipped a few of Obi-Wan’s classes, so he’s not there yet.

His stomach churns again, thinking about it. He’d wanted to apologize to Obi-Wan over his previous rebuff, because he _could_ use help catching back up, but everyone could tell Padawan Kenobi’s temper was short of late, and Bruck hadn’t even gotten past a greeting before the familiar heat of Obi-Wan’s glare had warned him to back off.

Bruck clenches a fist, bitter about it.

And at the same time, he feels foolish, because he’d even told himself in the beginning not to piss of someone who could give him what he’d wanted, and Obi-Wan, even if it was _Obi-Wan_ , was still the only instructor for Force Structures.

 _Take advantage of your opportunities_ , he thinks, not sure if the lesson was from the creche, or from his father, or from Xanatos, all three of which taught it with different intent.

“I am, my apologies, my thoughts weren’t in the present moment. I’d be honored, master.” Bruck replies, every word polite and carefully correct.

 _People are easy to please if you know what they want to hear_ , Xanatos had scoffed once, and then he’d smiled at Bruck. 

“Thank you, Disciple Chun.” The crechemaster replies, looking relieved. “I’ll put your name down and send you the details.” They nod, and Bruck nods back, finding it easier to smile in turn this time.

~*~

Obi-Wan feels sweat trickle down his spine, and itch along his sternum, and the annoying tickle of a stare prickle at the back of his neck. He knows his master has appeared to hover at the edge of the salle, watching him, but Obi-Wan wants to finish his set of katas first.

He needed to work out some aggression.

The whole affair with Quinlan and Siri, the worry over Shmi, the frustration-fear cocktail that haunts him in regards to the Sith, and his own seeming incapability to do more to help his master –

Obi-Wan bites his cheek. He had to get a handle on his emotions, and on his temper. At least Master Ben seemed to be engaging more with other Masters, and Master Fay seemed to be helping him – and Obi-Wan was not _resentful_ over that…

Mostly.

His Master trusting others more, getting help, it was a good thing. It was something Obi-Wan himself encouraged.

Which made his own jealousy when he sought out his master to check on him and found him occupied with someone else all the more galling.

Obi-Wan had even managed to offend Tsui this morning, with his snippiness, and he’d felt terrible when the Aleena teen dismissed himself unhappily.

Sian and Bant were out of Temple, he and Siri weren’t talking, Quinlan was…

Obi-Wan growls and disengages his lightsaber, which had itself felt disgruntled and unfocused, the harmony of the two crystals unbalanced by his own turbulent state. He had thought he was growing more attuned to his weapon, getting closer to teasing out it’s true potential – his true potential, but sometimes, it still felt like a stranger in his hand, full of secrets he was inadequate to understanding.

“Are you done trying to punish yourself?” His master inquires dryly.

“I am _not_ trying to-“ Obi-Wan snaps, and bites down on it slightly too late. He sighs raggedly, wiping sweat from his brow with his tunic, and turns fully towards his master.

Master Ben’s arms are crossed, one brow lifted too knowingly.

Obi-Wan gapes.

“If that’s what I’m doing, what the kriff happened to you?”

“Language, please.” His master grimaces, and lifts a hand to prod a blooming bruise on his cheek, which rose up to curl darkly under his right eye. “And I am attempting to learn Tera Kasi. It’s proving to be remarkably difficult.”

“Tera Kasi?” Obi-Wan inquires, intrigued as well as appalled, clipping his saber to his belt and drawing towards his master.

“It’s a fighting form designed to negate a Force Users abilities.” His master replies, leaning away when Obi-Wan lifts a hand to inspect the mark, and wincing before laying a hand over his ribs. Obi-Wan scowls at the gesture. “Which is proving to be excruciatingly difficult for actual Force Users to learn. Master Bondera lost patience with my distractibility.”

“Have you been to the healers?” Obi-Wan demands.

“It’s only bruises.” His master replies, reaching over and tugging on Obi-Wan’s padawan braid. “I’ll take care of them once we get back to our quarters.”

Obi-Wan reluctantly concedes on the matter. Master Ben hadn’t outright confided anything, but he’d dropped enough hints for Obi-Wan to understand that he and a select group of masters were working together in an effort to better prepare for countering the Sith.

Which had greatly alleviated some concerns Obi-Wan had had about his master’s relationship with Captain Rozess, to say the least.

“You are free the rest of the afternoon?” Master Ben inquires, grey-blue eyes sharp under red-gold brows.

“I’m attending an evening seminar, but that won’t be until after the dinner hour.” Obi-Wan informs his master. Given his light class schedule, he only had one or two actual classes a day, and while he was more involved in teaching, now that he wasn’t also helping Shmi study, it felt like he had too much time to himself, especially given that his master was busy, and thus wasn’t always available for training sessions.

So he ended up signing on to attend more seminars, and, at the behest of the younglings, to watch more of the plays and choir performances the Initiates were involved in. He had to admit they were surprisingly engaging, though all he remembered from his few times on the stage was a terrible fear of tripping in front of knights and masters. He’d liked chorus better because then he could hide next to Bant and no one would notice him if he made a mistake.

“Excellent.” His master replies, and steers him out.

Obi-Wan is sent on ahead when Master Ben diverts, saying he’s going to collect the boys, and Obi-Wan hurries through a shower, feeling better after, and curious, as there are a few small crates sitting on their table. Master Ben takes his time in arriving, and Obi-Wan discovers why when he, Anakin and Jax arrive with lunch, which takes the edge of his irritability in more ways than one.

Anakin boisterously fills them in on his morning as they eat, Jax grinning and nodding along, and, at one point, when Anakin is clearly exaggerating too much, shaking his head vehemently before finally turning to Ben and Obi-Wan, red faced with embarrassment, and signing a dramatic ‘ _No_!’.

He immediately jerks his hands down under the edge of the table, but Ben and Obi-Wan’s clear delight at the communication has him smiling in nervous relief, and he goes back to picking at his lunch. Anakin rolls his eyes, clearly telling his brother _I told you so_.

They finish their meal and clear table, and Master Ben sets a small holodisplay up, showing a diagram of an energy buckler.

“This,” Master Ben informs them. “ is a Mandalorian Personal Protection Shield. Now, I couldn’t get my hands on all the exact parts,” He gestures to the crates they’d set aside. “ but I think between the four of us, we can work something up.”

“Is that for Obi-Wan?” Anakin asks, looking excited to get his hands on the machinery. Obi-Wan is curious as to that as well, and looks to his master.

“Ah, no.” Master Ben glances at Obi-Wan a little sheepishly. “We’re actually building it for Sian.”

Obi-Wan thinks about it for a moment, and realizes that that’s a _brilliant_ idea, given the one obvious flaw in her developing form.

“Are you thinking we can embed it in her bracers?” Obi-Wan inquires, as Jax scoots over and climbs into his lap, while Anakin digs into the crates and starts tossing things onto the table, occasionally glancing at the diagram with a sharp focus some of his instructors would be overjoyed to discover he actually possessed.

“It was the suggestion, but I’m concerned about compromising the integrity of the cortoisis and the shield.” His master replies, opening a case of tools and laying out those they might need.

“So perhaps a sort of clamp to fix over her bracer? That way if it fails or gets damaged, she can discard it, and still have the cortoisis protection.” Obi-Wan reasons, shifting Jax’s position in his lap to better accommodate the both being able to use their hands. At six, the boys were getting gangly.

Master Ben smirks. “My thought exactly.” He praises.


	26. Chapter 26

Shmi does not know much of Shistavanen as a race, but she is quickly becoming familiar with that half-intake of breath, that ruffling fur, and then the flick of a lupine ear indicating either surprise or alarm, followed almost immediately by some attempt to make themselves seem…softer.

They can scent that she is pregnant. They don’t outright say anything about it to her face, but she knows that they know. Their human counterparts are less enlightened, but a few of them occasionally disappear and come back with a slightly more flustered demeanor. She would find it… amusing, to watch them try and come to term with the idea of a pregnant Jedi, if they were not so frustratingly obfuscating about everything else, especially as _everything else_ pertains to her mission.

Shmi retreats to a guest lounge, sipping ginger tea with a grimace and settling herself on a plush rounded sofa after a quick survey of the room. She is being observed, she would expect no less, but she has a small collection of small devices attached to her belt with which she can deal with such things. From a technological standpoint, at least. Almost as soon as she sends notice that she is secure, she receives a comm from Luminara.

The young mirialan appears a titan of patience and fortitude over the holo, and Shmi feels her lips twitch wryly. “I assume the Dol Mora are proving just as politely unhelpful as the Sathas?”

Luminara Unduli lifts a regal brow. “ _Yours are polite about it_?” She inquires primly. Shmi tips her head, conceding. She is aware that Luminara gave herself the more difficult seeming half of the two parties, not out of pride, but out of deference and concern for Shmi, who, though older and perhaps more experienced in life, is less experienced as a Jedi, broaching Knighthood or not.

And whom had also been ill their entire trip.

Shmi regrets that her morning sickness – illy named, as it occurred morning, noon, eve, and night without discretion – had reared up with a vengeance during hyperspace travel.

“ _They’ve offered me plenty of charges and blame, but are remarkably unhelpful when it comes to answering the other sides claims – and in providing detailed information on their missing surveyor team_.” Luminara continues, dark lips frowning slightly.

Shmi tilts her cup, considering. “I believe the missing survey teams should be our priority. All the rest is… contingent and mostly technical.” Shmi was trained to deal in political minutia, but she did not _like_ it. “I have been provided personnel files and their last known trajectory, however…” She purses her lips a little, displeased. “ I have the sense that the Sathas are less concerned with recovery than they are with reparations.”

It rankled, that these peoples were more interested in the potential profit of lives lost than the possibility of lives to be saved. What was the purpose of their war if they refused to care for their own side?

“ _I concur.”_ Luminara sighs lightly, looking down with a genuine, quiet measure of sorrow that the lives in question were so ill cared for. But she looks back up shortly, fortitude and surety back in her gaze. “ _But if they cannot be pressed to care, then it is fortunate we are Jedi, and we can provide such care in their place_.”

~*~

“Master, don’t you have a council meeting?” Siri blurts out, grimacing at the slight accusation in her tone as she comes back to their quarters to find Master Gallia waiting for her, jasmine tea on hand, arms crossed.

“I am not _on_ the Council.” Her master refutes, one brow lifting in an irritated twitch. Siri huffs a little, wiping sweat off her neck. She is sweaty, slightly bruised, her hair is a mess, and two hours of sparring still hasn’t got the restless angry itch out from under her skin. Her master looks her over head to toe, seeming both concerned and scolding at once, and Siri refuses to flinch about that, treading further inside, her muscles sluggish and fluid-heavy, uncooperative as she joins her master at the table, taking the offered tea and trying not to slouch against the cushions. She doesn’t want them smelling like her used laundry.

Siri is not the most orderly person, but her master is, and the neat, clean space of their quarters, all calming pale shades and refreshing, soap-and-fragrance smell is one she doesn’t want to disturb. _Clear surroundings for clear minds_ , her master would say.

“I think that’s debateable.” Siri replies.

“Not for me.” Her master mutters, and then takes a breath, sighing. Siri looks up a little mulishly, because she knows that sigh.

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” Siri gets out with it.

Her master pauses, humming. “Now that, I believe, _is_ up for debate.”

Siri shrinks a little. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Her master replies, and that, that makes it – worse. Siri feels her eyes sting, and it’s stupid and she _hates_ it. She hates that Quinlan left. She hates that she’s fighting with Obi-Wan. She hates that she hates it, that she can’t get over it, get control of herself-

She draws in a sharp breath, as angry with herself as she is with everything else, and refuses to cry. Again.

“Siri.” Aster Adi says softly, and Siri looks up, crystal blue eyes swimming, into a calm, steady violet gaze. It helps. Her master holds her gaze for a moment, and then takes a sip of tea. “I’m going to send you to Ossus.” She says.

“What?!” Siri demands. “You’re sending me away? Master- I – I’ll do better. I can. I can get over this.”

“Siri.” Master Adi repeats softly. Soft, but firm. “I am not casting you out. I am sending you to your friend.”

Siri can feel her brow pinch tightly.

Ossus.

Bant.

Oh.

Siri looks down. She still doesn’t feel – good, about it.

“I can’t tell you what to feel, Siri. I can’t tell you how to deal with this. But I hope I can give you what you need to deal with this yourself. And I think that you can do better if you are not here, in the middle of…all of this.” She gestures vaguely, but Siri gets it. They were right in the thick of the changes in the Temple, in the Order, in the politics and the publicity and the paperwork, constantly trying to do everything they could to do the best for the Jedi in their care, who took assignments on their direction, and it was – it was a lot. And it never seemed to let up.

Siri chews her lip, shoving down her initial denial. “I’m not the only one who could do to get away from all this.” Siri replies tightly.

Master Adi snorts a bit. “Perhaps not.” She admits. “But I’m not quite prepared to leave Knight Micoda on his own just yet.”

Siri doesn’t pout, but she wasn’t sure her master was ever going to be prepared for that. Even when they were on missions, she was still in constant contact with the Temple, trying to micromanage from afar.

“How long?” Siri asks instead, resigning herself to being put on break, even as gratitude started to worm it’s way through her chest. She really, really could use a friend like Bant right now.

“Two weeks.”

“Master!” Siri protests. “One week!”

“A ten day.” Master Adi’s eyes narrow. Siri’s narrow in turn.

“A ten day.” She accepts grudgingly, knowing Master Adi only conceded one. If Siri pushed back too hard, she’d likely end up on sabbatical for a month.

The tholotian smiles faintly with victory, her eyes still alight with concern, and Siri drinks her tea before staring down into the cup. “Thank you, Master.” She finally says.

“I am here for you, Siri.” Her master replies with quiet sincerity. She may not entirely understand Siri’s feelings, or how to help her resolve them, but that didn’t matter.

Siri’s eyes are still stinging, but she manages a smile. “Yeah. I know.”

~*~

“Jedi Unduli, surely it is undue for you to go yourself?” The Dol Moranda Duros clicks his tongue, fingers pressed together in what she is beginning to suspect may actually be concern. “The uncharted territory is dangerous in and of itself. If the Sathas should sabotage your shuttle as they did our survey team-“

“That is of yet unproven, Advocate.” Luminara reminds the Duros patiently. “And you will find that a Jedi is not so easily taken by surprise – be it by hostiles or by nature. We must verify what happened to your survey team, which means I must go and look for them.”

On the other side of the uncharted space, Luminara knew Shmi was preparing to do the same.

The both of them had done what they could to investigate from their respective systems, tracking down any mapping data and technological specs they could to try and draw together a picture of the survey teams route and capabilities – as well as any possible hints of their potential ability to sabotage one another. They had debated potential causes and outcomes, but there was something still troubling about the case.

It was entirely possible that one or both survey teams had simply gotten lost, or had been met with an accident of natural causes, but the behavior of the two sides… there was something to this mission, lurking beneath the surface, that itched at their senses and their intuition. They both suspected something more, but pinning it down was difficult.

Sathas and Dol Moranda may be bored of war, but the loathing, even outright hated between the two systems still ran deep within both cultures, muddying the waters between suspicion and fact.

The duros hisses in aggravation. Luminara does not take offense. She eyes the gleaming band of stars and nebulae beyond the viewport of the docking station and feels the Force whisper.

Not a warning, she thinks, just a whisper. Just echoes.


	27. Chapter 27

The hull shudders, lights dancing across the cockpit from dimly lit dust bands and brightly pulsating distant star forming clusters. Radiation spikes and falls, and Luminara isn’t sure she could remove her fingers from the controls at the moment if she wanted to.

Danger sings through her nerves, like a beat of music through the stars, and the field of rocks and debris around her drift and turn indifferently. She holds her breath, and the Force echoes. The present seems calm, but the past was anything but, and she has to focus, to parse the turbulence from reality or memory.

Luminara Unduli is a gentle soul, even among the Jedi. She is not emotionally driven, she does not hold onto hurts, she is rarely given to sharper feelings such as temper or disgust, but as her ship drifts through the empty vestiges of a forgotten graveyard, she truly _despises_ war.

Generations past, and the battlefields here still bleed. So much suffering, and anguish, and terror, what cause was worth that?

“Jedi Unduli?” Her co-pilot, a squid-like Quarren from one of Dol Moranda’s more aquatic regions, whispers tensely, his fear a prickly thing against her senses.

Luminara opens her eyes, which she imagines relieves them, considering she had been piloting blind. She pulls the yoke, the ship careening sharply, and a half-corroded unexploded space mine rolls lazily by.

Unfortunately, some remnants of war were more than just wretched memories.

She eyes the field, relying on far more than just her sight, and offers a reassuring smile to her companions, the Force whispering, drawing them deeper in. She takes a breath, trusts her instincts, and follows the call. She has a survey team to find.

~*~

“Please stop please stop please stop-“

Shmi scowls as her human copilot mutters furiously, space and direction an unknowable cascade around them as her ship rotates with minimal control, one of the propulsion nacels sputtering.

“Sabotage?” One of the Shistavanen escorts growls, whuffing in stress.

Shmi’s scowl softens into a less severe frown, and she ignores them for a moment, trying to quell an acid burp crawling up the back of her throat and calculate a thrust correction to get the spinning under control.

What bothers her, of the accusation of sabotage, is that while she does not doubt the conviction of these two sides to cause the other distress, she doubts their _means_ to do so. She inspected this ship herself prior to embarking – she guaranteed its condition. And there had been nothing to suggest there was anything wrong with the survey team’s vessel prior to their own departure.

Which means any sabotage would have had to occur within the uncharted space.

The hitch being that it was, indeed, still uncharted space. If one side had such an advantage as to already have mapped safe travel lanes, then all the leverage they could need in negotiations would already exist. Disabling or outright destroying the opposing sides survey team would serve no other purpose than to ignite conflict – and she and Luminara both concurred that those they were working with deeply desired to avoid reigniting violent conflict between their two peoples.

Shmi tests her course corrections, pleased when the craft syncs into more controlled rotations, allowing the stabilizers to compensate, and her stomach stops attempting to rebel. “I do not believe so.” She states aloud, peering out the viewport.

Her brow furrows again. If, of course, she rules out sabotage, there is still something wrong with her ship, and she does not know why. Fine dust plinks and strafes the hulls, a vast swathe of obscuring black around their ship, a dark space in the uncharted territory.

Her shistavanen companion growls in unease, and Shmi draws her hands away from the controls, letting the vessel drift. She has trusted her instincts so far, and they have not failed her. She stares into the black, and the beacons of distant stars and gaseous regions, dimmed by the dust.

 _Tink-tip-tip-tip-tink-tink-tip_.

Like sand being blown against a wall, some clusters heavier than other, but without the _shiff-slide-scrape_ she was familiar with. Almost as if it was sticking.

Shmi reaches out, flinching at the first few echoes that reach her, deaths in cold vacuum and worse, deaths in waiting, stranded with no rescue – but those are old, far, far too old to be what she is seeking. She shivers, wrapping her arms around her stomach, and pushes past them, praying for them to find Ar-Amu’s light, and be guided away from the suffering that tormented them in life.

There is no sound in the vacuum of space, but in the Force, she hadn’t realized, but stars made _noise_. Dying stars seemed to moan, or sigh, and forming stars threw out waves of discordant, powerful and uncertain energy, as if trying to speak a language the speaker themselves did not know. Dead ships and forgotten machines rang like discordant chimes, and she could almost hear the blasterfire, and the shearing metal, and the whumpf of distant explosions.

Beyond that, in the distance, she thought she could even sense Padawan Unduli, reaching out in the same way, a clear, known chord in a cacophony.

The noise crowds her head, buzzing and confusing and not what she needed. It pressed at her skull, and Shmi grits her teeth, trying not to flinch, to hide, because she will not find what she seeks by hiding.

 _Where_? She thinks, prays, calls out. _Where are you_?

She pictures them - the young captain, the grey-muzzled co-pilot, the trio of daring, mismatched surveyors ready to wade into the danger of unmapped space, into the future promise it held, and the dread remnants of the past – cradles them in her minds eye, and in her heart, and reaches out for them.

The stars push back, and push back, and push back, and Shmi finally understands.

They are _not_ out there.

“Padawan Skywalker?” Her co-pilot says uncertainly, brown skin splotched with freckles, dark eyes reflecting the display from his console.

 _Tip-tink-tip-tip-tink_.

“We must turn around.” Shmi says with certainty.

“Yeah.” He mutters, tapping on his gages. “We might have a problem with that.”

~*~

Obi-Wan tromps out of the ‘fresher, vaguely certain that he probably hadn’t gotten all of the oil off his face, but he was nominally clean and he’d applied cream to the sears on his hands and arms. “Anakin, next time, no fires, okay?” Obi-Wan grouses, flexing his fingers and wincing as the seared skin stings and pulls taught.

Anakin rolls his eyes as big as he possibly can. “It wasn’t on _purpose_ , Obi-Wan.” The youngling grouses back. “I almost won!”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. Yes, Anakin had almost won the impromptu hover cart race between him, Jax, Etain, Padawan Parratus, and the youngest Nightbrother Feral, who really hadn’t had any clue how to drive but who had been plenty eager to try. He’d also blown a propulsor, overheated, and caught his engine on fire. Considering Padawan Parratus had been leaking oil, they’re very lucky the damage had been limited to Obi-Wan’s hands, his and Anakin’s tunics, and the synth-textile seat.

Obi-Wan may have panicked and nearly snapped the safety straps with his bare hands trying to get Anakin free. In contrast, Anakin had been very focused and quite calm, both getting out and then getting the fire mitigated before anything blew up. Padawan Parratus promised to improve the safety systems. He hadn’t quite expected how hard Anakin could push the limits of the little custom built crafts.

“I’ll get dinner started if you two want to clean up.” He says instead of rewarding that comment with further response, gesturing to the fresher. Jax had coolant powder sticking to his clothes and hair, and Anakin was still rather smoke stained.

It had not done Obi-Wan’s nerves any favors that the service droid had whistled chirpily when they’d dragged the wreckage back to the maintenance bays. Anakin had laughed and fist bumped its dome. Anyone else would have gotten a shrieking condemnation from the mechs, but not Anakin.

That was not actually in any way a relief.

Still, he won’t hold on to the incident with too much grudge. It had been fun, and distracting, and Obi-Wan had really needed that. Still kind of needed it, he thinks.

“Okay.” Anakin hops up, having been leaning into Jax, both of them sitting on the floor under the table. “Is this yours?” He holds up a book. Obi-Wan frowns.

“No.” He replies. “I think that’s Master Ben’s.” Obi-Wan has certainly seen his master flipping absently through the pages often enough, though never actually appearing to read it.

“Oh.” Anakin frowns. “Think he’ll let us borrow it? I wanna finish reading the fable.”

“Hm?” Obi-Wan takes the book, frowning at the slightly dizzying cover, and sets it back down on the table. “You’ll have to ask him later. I think he’s studying it.”

Anakin crinkles his nose. “I didn’t think Masters had to do homework.”

Obi-Wan snorts, goes to ruffle Anakin’s hair, and then pauses, reconsidering. He _just_ got clean. Jax grins knowingly at him over Anakin’s shoulder, and starts pushing his brother towards the ‘fresher. “Ani, there is _always_ homework. Master’s just usually assign it to themselves.”

“Ugh. I’d never.”

“Homework isn’t that bad.” Obi-Wan counters.

“It’s _boring_.”

“That’s because you don’t get to choose much of what you have to study right now. When you’re older, you get to pick things that are more interesting to you.”

“Promise?”

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “Promise. Now _go_. Get cleaned up.” Jax is practically dragging him at this point, and Anakin is dragging his feet just to be obnoxious.

Obi-Wan turns towards the kitchen and pauses, turning back. He picks up the book, the grooves on the cover catching somewhat painfully on his abused hands. He turns it over idly, flipping through gilt, feather-soft pages as he walks over to Master Ben’s room. He’s not sure what languages it’s written in, the script hard to focus on, but he pauses on a page bearing crowded sketches, overlapping and disconnected, like fragments of larger meanings.

The images were simple and detailed, vivid in starkness, and one, half bleeding into a dozen others, caught his eyes like a brand, though he did not know why.

A weaving spider, eating the heart of a krayt dragon caught in its web, only the heart was not a heart, but a bird.

Obi-Wan snaps the book shut, skin crawling, and tosses it into Master Ben’s room. It lands on the bed and bounces, the shuff of pages sounding like a chuff of laughter.

He thinks he would rather Master Ben _not_ lend that Anakin, whatever that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Today is the day. Exactly 1 year ago today I started posting this monster, and here we are, 17 arcs and over 600,000 words later. Some of you have been here from day 1 and some you have caught up along the way, and it is absolutely insane when I think about how this, and thus all of you, have been a near daily part of my life for this last year. 
> 
> And it has been... a massive year for me. A massive year for everyone, I think. But we've made it! Through disasters and successes and present circumstances.   
> I went to Asia for the first time. Got promoted and then abruptly became a supervisor when everyone who had been there before me left, had to train new people two weeks after learning it all for myself. Completely restructured an office as a result. Bought my first house after losing out four times and learned that credit checks are hazardous things. Remodeled a bathroom. Had a breakdown. Adopted a cat. I love this cat. He sits in my lap when I write and growls at me indignantly when I jostle him.   
> I tested my limits and found new ones and it has been... a thing. a trial. a journey, and this story kept me sane through most of it.  
> Hopefully it's helped my readers through just as much as it has helped me, and i am so proud to get to celebrate this milestone.   
> Cheers everybody, but, like, socially distant ones. 
> 
> To anyone out there right now in medical or infrastructural occupations, handling this crisis on the ground day to day, to all my nurses and doctors and grocery stockers and sanitation controllers and delivery drivers, i salute you, and hope you all stay safe out there.


	28. Chapter 28

“Captain?” Luminara tests the comm of her exo-suit, her duros surveyor companion deftly checking over her seals, as she had checked over his, ensuring all was correct. She would sense the fatality of the mistake if they had not been, but the thoroughness of the buddy checks was valued nonetheless.

“Shield integrity is holding, Jedi Unduli, but we can’t be hanging around.”

“I understand.” Luminara replies gently. “We will be swift, and we will return your people home.” She closes her eyes briefly, her breath coiling between her and the transpariteen dome of her exo-suit’s hood, a brief touch of warmth and moisture.

Two sparks meeting in the distance, a flash of brilliant, blinding light, and then – too late.

Binary stars merging in a violent display, sending an explosion of gravity and gamma radiation through the surrounding system. The survey team had known what was happening too late.

The ship had been carried on the cascade from the stellar event, forced out of route, but also farther from the intensity of the newly expanded star. Just far enough to be reached.

But there had been no chance of survival, no hope for rescue. The ships shields were overwhelmed, the integrity compromised. Radiation sickness likely claimed their lives within minutes, if not instantly.

Luminara’s chest feels heavy, her shoulders feel heavy. There is nothing she could have done – they were dead before she was even called to find them, but that there will be no rescue, that she cannot save anyone here – it still weighs.

She opens her eyes, accepting a helping hand from her companion into the airlock, prepping for vacuum.

She cannot save them. There is no one left to save. So she will accept that, and act, and do the best that she can. Sometimes, that is all one can do. Jedi don’t always get to come in and be the heroes.

She cannot save them. So Luminara must do the next right thing. She can still bring them home, to their people. She can ensure they don’t stay out here, lost in the dust and the dark and the cold, another ghost fading into the stars. Another echo.

~*~

A magnetic dust cloud.

Frustrating, but not fatal. The filaments and particles swarm the ship, grain by grain weighing it down, suffocating the thrusters, the propulsion, interrupting the nav-com, even straining the stabilizers.

“We are dead in the water.”

“We are not _in_ water. This – this is _space_.”

“It’s an _expression_.”

The morale of the crew had not been aided by the systems shut-down Shmi had ordered. The two shistavanen on board were stress-shedding, and Shmi’s human counterpart looked impatient but felt antsy.

Shmi ignores that she herself feels tired and irritable and bloated, and instead focuses on her breath, on her heartbeat – _not_ heartburn – and on calm, on the immutable center of herself, letting it flow through the cabin like a breeze drawing a touch of relief through the dunes.

“Did we call for rescue?”

“What good would that do? They’d end up in the same straights as we are!”

“In the same _what_?”

“I swear on my ancestors, if you –“

“Sirs.” Shmi intercedes, one palm against her chest, feeling for her heartbeat in a habit from her early lessons with Shaak, from trying to teach her to narrow her senses inward, instead of always on guard, always seeking outward threats and dangers. “We will be fine.”

“Well if the _Jedi_ says so.” The dark furred shistavanen security officer assigned to accompany her growls, teeth flashing briefly. The tan-furred shistavanen surveyor takes offense to his manners, and growls warningly, furred ruff rising along his spine. Shmi’s human co-pilot makes an entirely different and far more stressed sounding growl in his ill-equipped throat, and wrings his hands, looking to Shmi for guidance.

“I will move the ship back out of the dust cloud and we will return to Sathas station.” Shmi states, over all of them. Furred ears twitch, and hackles settle. Her co-pilot is the one giving her a dubious look this time.

“But you had me shut down the operational controls.” He points out.

“I am a Jedi.” Shmi points out in turn. “I have the Force. I can do this.”

 _In theory_ , she thinks less confidently, and then allows the thought to pass from her mind. There is no place for her doubt here, no place for her fears.

“You can…move the ship….with the Force?”

A flutter in her stomach, and Shmi can’t tell if it’s the baby or just nerves.

Shmi offers them a smile she rather thinks she picked up from Ben, one that suggests much but promises nothing, and lets them draw their own conclusions.

“If you will be calm, and allow me to focus.” She offers serenely, drawing one leg up to arrange herself more comfortably – or as comfortably as was possible – in her pilots chair.

One of the shistavanen whines low in his throat, but all three of her companions do their best to make themselves smaller and quieter – some more successfully than others.

Shmi takes a focused breath - that flutter is most certainly both nerves _and_ the baby – and pictures their ship; a small, inconsequential thing, suspended in absence - little more than a dust mote in dark air, from a certain point of view. Easy enough to stir with the simplest of exhales.

Shmi lets out her breath, chest falling, air rising.

And the ship moves.

~*~

“How is he doing?” Ben inquires, walking with Master Se’sanimma through the creche, inquiring after Disciple Chun. Disciple Chun had been assisting several clans in their early lessons, which Ben may or may not have had a hand in prodding along.

Well, the initiative had actually been taken by Shaak Ti, once Ben had vaguely and perhaps not entirely convincingly confided in her as to the boys potential misguided loyalties…

Ben is still not certain where the boys loyalties lie, but encouraging his loyalties to the Jedi – that, they believe, can be done. If Bruck is not with them now, perhaps he can be persuaded to be, before push comes to shove, and hopefully they are able to avert tragedy.

Reminding him that he does have a place in this Temple is a good start. And having him teach lessons does exactly that.

Hopefully, it also helps reassert some of those early lessons and philosophies in the teacher as well.

“He is not the most patient – or the kindest – but he is thorough, and he does not give up on them, no matter trying they prove to be.” The twi’lek master replies, massaging the base of her own neck as they walked. There was a sense of fragility to the bold younger Jedi that hadn’t been there before _Temple’s Bane_ , and Ben is sorry to see it, but there is a new depth of endurance to her as well. “Interestingly enough, some of our… less easily motivated pupils appear to have discovered how inspiring spite can be. They do much better for his… less forgiving demeanor.”

Ben snorts softly. Spite may not be exactly in line with Jedi mandates and philosophies of service and self-improvement, but it could be just as effective.

“I suppose that is something.” He murmurs. “Have there been any… inquiries?” Ben inquires.

“Among crechemasters, no. I’m afraid that boy simply doesn’t have the nurturing in him our field requires. But… Master Sinube has come around a few times, observing. More so than usual. I’m not sure he’ll take another student, after making a Padawan of that rather hot-headed Bothan from the Skywalker Initiative, but I think he sees potential in the boy. He may have some candidates.” Master Se suggests, and Ben nods along thoughtfully.

“Perhaps I’ll speak with him.” Ben replies.

Master Se’s fine brows arch, lips drawing out a prodding sort of smile. “I must say, Master Naasade, that your interest surprises me. Rumor has it that Disciple Chun and your Padawan are quite at odds.”

Ben grimaces. “Oh, they are. Which quite a few of our peers simply allowed or ignored, when the pair were younger. That did neither of them any favors.”

“I can only presume it was assumed that the two would sort it out.” Se’sanimma replies, though her tone is not convinced, with the problem made apparent to her. But she is a Jedi. She is predisposed to be charitable in her perspectives.

“They didn’t.” Ben retorts dryly.

Her lekku twitch, half pity and half mirth. “I don’t envy you the growing pains.” She concedes. “ Or the therapy.”

Ben huffs. “Believe me, that is hardly why I’m in therapy.”

She laughs, flashing a brilliant blue smile. “I’ll stay well away from that line of questioning, Master Naasade.” She shakes her head. “And I’ll wish you luck.”

Ben rubs his beard ruefully. “Thank you. I feel I’ll need it.”


	29. Chapter 29

“High Marshall. High Consul.” Shmi dips her head with perfunctory grace, her sleeve still stained with engine grease, though she had gotten her face and hands clean following her field repair of the survey vessel once they’d exited the magnetic cloud. She had directed the team back to the Sathas Survey Station, and from their immediately requested a personal interview with the two beings in charge of directing treaty relations.

She followed up by contacting Luminara, who was able to give her the sad discovery of the Dol Moranda Survey Team’s fate. Shmi had filled Luminara in on her suspcions, and the other Padawan had refused to offer judgement on her reasoning – offering instead any support Shmi would ask of her.

“This mission is about our ability to trust our own judgement.” Luminara had pointed out.

“Is it not yet wise to test my judgement against the judgement of those I trust?” Shmi had countered.

Luminara had offered her a faintly amused look, and Shmi had sighed. “Trust yourself, Shmi Skywalker. You can do this without me. Without anyone.”

“But I do not _have_ to.” Shmi points out.

“But we kind of need to prove that we _can_.” Luminara had won.

She was right, of course, and Shmi, having so limited an experience as a Jedi, had more to prove than Luminara did, to earn her Knighthood.

Shmi had conceded, and requested Luminara recall to the Midway Station between the two systems.

Shmi was hoping her interview would go well, but if it did not…

The High Marshall was an administrative military position held by a tall bald fellow who stood nearly as high as a shistavanen himself, and the High Consul was a more diplomatic role held by a snowy-furred shistavenen female who leveraged her scant three inches of height advantage over the High Marshall for absolutely everything it was worth.

Shmi had observed them in near constant bickering and belittling, and yet, she felt their underlying motivations and machinations were very much aligned, and that their animosity was at least half feigned. 

“Jedi Skywalker.” The High Marshall greeted her, tipping his bald head.

“Padawan Skywalker.” The High Consul countered, pointedly stressing the appropriate title with a gleam of teeth. The High Marshall grumbled under his breath, and the shistavanen female chuffed in her own amusement. And then she huffs a half-intake of breath, fur ruffling, and flicks one lupine ear in surprise before combing back the ruff along her jaw.

Her human counterpart narrows his eyes, glancing over Shmi at the shistavanen’s behavior.

“High Marshall, High Consul.” Shmi returns the greeting, calm and unbothered. “I would like to report that the Dol Moranda have recovered their missing survey team. The personnel are being returned to their families for the appropriate rites.”

A tightening grimness leeches from them both, but no surprise, nor any real sorrow for the lives lost. They were their enemy, after all.

“A pity.” The High Consul murmurs diplomatically. Shmi looks levelly back.

“It is.” The padawan replies. “They died in service to their people.”

“So we’ve been proven innocent of the allegations of interference on our part-“ The High Marshall lays out, his volume gruff, and Shmi lifts a flat palm for him to hold off that he ignores. “ – _false_ and utterly unsupported allegations, I might add, which should be taken into account when-“

“High Marshall.” Shmi cuts him off, laying her hand back down, her voice and gaze still level and firm. “What I will take into account during mediation is how cooperative you prove to be with me right here and now.”

His jaw snaps shut, face twitching towards a sneer he quickly supresses.

“Padawan Skywalker,” the High Consul interjects smoothly, white fur twitching. “I’m not sure we ascertain your meaning? We requested the Jedi. You have our full cooperation.”

Shmi tips her head slightly, comforted by the weight of her lightsabers at her hips, and the steadfast thrum of the Force around her. “Then you will take no issue in revealing the location of your own survey team, whom I expect were not volunteers in their own abduction by the system-state of Sathas, and in allowing them to return safely and with due compensation to their families and their duties?”

~*~

“What are you sulking about?” Cuts through the din of the dining hall, where Obi-Wan has been listlessly considering eating his lunch.

“I am not – sulking.” Obi-Wan protests, grumbling halfheartedly when Asajj drops down next to him, her well-laden tray clattering as it hits the table. “Padawan Ventress.” He greets.

Asajj lifts her gaze to the ceiling and sighs. “Padawan Kenobi.” She returns with mock scathing. “I can pick a different word, you know. Brooding. Moping. Pouting-“

“Or you could not.” Obi-Wan remarks testily. Dark lips twitch towards satisfaction, and Obi-Wan sighs, picking at his stew. Asajj tears a steam bun in half, dunks it in some kind of sauce, and shoves it in her mouth. Obi-Wan eyes her with faint recrimination for her manners, and she flushes before glowering at him, her chalk-pale cheeks a dusty lavender by the time she swallows.

“You have to be taking etiquette classes.” Obi-Wan remarks, certain of it.

“I forget sometimes, alright?” Asajj snaps. “I’m still not used to having my next meal guaranteed. Or to knowing if I’ll get to finish this one.”

Obi-Wan carefully keeps himself from pitying her, because that was a good way to get socked in the gut. “It isn’t always, in the field. But the Temple is safe.”

“Yeah.” She huffs, almost too low for him to hear. “I’m not used to that either.”

It’s been months, but what were a few months compared to a lifetime?

“Was it always bad?” Obi-Wan asks quietly, hoping he doesn’t overstep.

“It wasn’t _bad_.” The dathomiri girl retorts quickly. “It was hard. But we made due.”

Obi-Wan nods, and lets his lips quirk. “Think of it this way,” He says, when her brow pinches and apprehension tickles around her in the Force as her thoughts sink. “You’re the only Padawan here who can say they have ten solid years of field experience. You’ve survived pirates and warlords and slavers and ambushes, natural hazards and complete isolation. That’s impressive.”

She perks up a bit at the praise, pulling her steam bun apart with a bit more restraint. “I suppose so. But experience is all I’ve got.” She frowns again. “Master tried, but my education is…. Well, let’s call that _bad_.” She mutters.

Obi-Wan snorts a little. “You’ll conquer it, I’m sure.” There was little, he thinks, that Asajj Ventress couldn’t conquer. She wasn’t just a Jedi, she was a survivor, to her bones.

“Yeah.” She replies ambivalently, but the apprehension around her lifts, and she prods him with a painfully sharp elbow.

“What?” Obi-Wan snaps, coughing on an inhale of stew.

“What _are_ you sulking about?” She asks again.

“What do you care? I wasn’t under the impression we were friends.” Obi-Wan retorts, a tad more sharply than he meant, and her winter eyes turn frosty and harsh.

“Then I guess I don’t.” She snaps with a rasp, but stubbornly turns to eating, and doesn’t budge, and Obi-Wan squirms after a few minutes, feeling guilty.

Obi-Wan takes a breath and lets it out in a huff of frustration. “I’m not exactly having a lot of luck with my friends lately.” He mutters. “Sorry.”

“But you’re _so_ charming.” She says pithily, tone bone dry.

Obi-Wan glowers at her. She rolls her eyes. “What does your master say about it? I’d offer an opinion, but I’ve never really had friends.” She says drolly.

 _Which explains so much_ , Obi-Wan thinks uncharitably.

“My master is rather busy.” Obi-Wan replies, rapidly losing his appetite, which he didn’t have much of in the first place.

“Oh.” She replies. “Yeah, that’s the annoying part.”

Obi-Wan looks up at her, brow pinched in confusion. She shifts, lifting a brow.

“Master Ky was always just, mine, you know?” She remarks, a little self-conscious and a bit bristly to make up it. “And now he isn’t. I try not to be mad at them. Or him.” She shrugs. “It’s a work in progress.”

 _Or him_.

Yeah, Obi-Wan thinks Asajj has found exactly what that dark knot of feeling low in his gut was.

He’d meditated on it, thinking it was just… just despondency, or loneliness. He’d been angry a lot lately, for a lot of reasons, and it was all just boiling together into one hot, sharp pain inside that caught him by surprise sometimes. He missed Taria, a little, but he and Taria always knew they were going to say goodbye. They just took the chance that they had, and that was enough. But then it was Quinlan, and Siri, and even Shmi was away right now, and…

Obi-Wan could handle it, was so sure he could handle it, but there were moments, when he really, really needed to not have to handle it alone, and he went to his master, and his master wasn’t there. He was busy as Battlemaster, or he was training with his fellow Masters, or he was visiting Master Fay, or Healer Kala, or the creche, or they had the boys.

It was never just them anymore, and even before this – he knew his master was trying, that he’d encouraged him to reach out more, to rely on other people, but even before this horrible feeling started settling in his gut, it felt like Master Ben had tended to shut him out.

And whatever had happened on Dathomir made it worse. He’d wake up at night, sometimes, feeling that _pulling-tearing-snap_ in his chest, something ripped away that he couldn’t define, but he knew that he _missed_ it.

He could deal with Quinlan leaving. He could deal with Siri being angry at him. He could deal with Bruck’s presence and Shmi’s absence and the hovering, suffocating threat of the Sith, but dealing with all of it was a bit too much, and he didn’t think he could do it alone.

And he was angry at his master, for making him feel like he was doing it alone.

And he was angry at himself, for being angry at his master, because Obi-Wan was an idiot who hadn’t actually opened his mouth and forced the older Jedi to listen, forced himself to explain.

Because in the end, he thinks he and his master are terribly alike, and Master Ben isn’t the only one who can have a hard time asking for help.

“Yeah.” Obi-Wan concurs dully. “A work in progress.”


	30. Chapter 30

“The result of our investigation, and our official conclusion, is that no treaty violations occurred in part or in whole by either side. Both survey teams are now accounted for, and diplomatic cooperation between the Sovereign Systems of Sathas and Dol Moranda, and the exploration of the uncharted neutral territories, may now continue unimpeded.” Luminara addresses the convetion before her, standing at the nominal head of an asymmetrical table, Shmi to her right in a high-backed chair, her own high-backed chair sitting empty to her left. The representatives of both systems sit under their scrutiny with ill-hid dissatisfaction. “Padawan Skywalker and I, will, of course, continue to lend our support in this matter until safe routes have been established, and resource rights can be divided.” She says serenely.

“And we are simply to ignore the heinous allegations of _murder_ against our-“

“ They accused us of sabotage, they threatened-“

“Vice Chancellor. High Consul.” Shmi stands, palms pressing flat to the table, and silences the room with a sharp brown gaze and an impassive presence. “We understand that allegations have been made against both sides. That animosity and ill-intent runs deep yet between your systems. We understand that allegations and animosity will likely continue, thwarting and hindering every effort between your peoples from here perhaps until the end of time.”

She takes a breath as eyes narrow and fur ruffles and one of the duros lets out a ticked, nonverbal hiss of air.

“So understand this, right here and now; each of you has assaulted the other with blame, and each of you were wrong. So I congratulate you, as in the eyes of the Jedi, you have placed yourselves on even footing. We will accede conditions of the treaty to neither side, and it will stand as you have drafted its terms. Now you may continue to argue this until solar death if your wish – the Jedi have agreed to aide you, and we are very patient people.” She shares a glance with Luminara, who looks utterly sanguine and feels like mirth. “But I advise that we forgo our complaints for today, and move forward towards actual progress, for all parties involved. The uncharted territories and all they have to offer still await.”

Grumbling, low growling, hissing, uncomfortable shifting.

 _It’s like scolding recalcitrant children_ , Shmi thinks. Except her boys were never so pettily inclined.

Luminara had made quite an expressive face when Shmi had confirmed her own theory that Sathas had kidnapped its’ own survey team when Dol Moranda first started making accusations of sabotage, volleying in kind with accusations of their own. At first, it had been a simple matter of trying to even the playing field – as Sathas knew they had nothing to do with Dol Moranda’s missing surveyors, but Dol Moranda would hardly give them the opportunity to prove that. But as the Jedi got involved, they had, perhaps, overstepped themselves in trying to turn their ploy from a defensive measure to an offensive one, and leverage that missing team for an advantage.

Perhaps they thought they could get away with it as the Jedi sent were no revered Masters, but mere Padawans.

Luminara had coached Shmi away from telling Dol Moranda what Sathas had done, advising that such an admission may increase hostilities, pulling them farther away from any potential resolution, and together they had devised their approach, leveraging both sides back into balance.

Shmi was no stranger to careful falsehoods and allowing beneficial assumptions to occur by omission, but she did not like relying upon a deception to carry her efforts. Still, she accepted that no good would come of bringing that to light, but warned the High Marshall and High Consul of Sathas that the Jedi would not be so forgiving of a second offense. They were not to be used.

“It was not our intent-“

“It was the result.” Shmi had replied firmly, when the High Consul tried to salvage their reputation with the Jedi Order. “And it was not by accident.”

The Vice Chancellor of Dol Moranda accedes first, sneering thinly at his Sathas counterparts. “Dol Moranda accepts the Jedi’s judgement. We are eager to move beyond this….misunderstanding. For the advancement and prosperity of our peoples.”

“We of Sathas could not agree more.” The High Consul replies, her voice low and utterly dry.

“Excellent.” Luminara bows her head, smiling with faint effervescence, which conveys an understated sense of pleasure, like a pleased teacher praising their class. Such an expression seemed to illuminate her own wisdom, bestowing upon her a sage reserve and respect, despite her age.

~*~

“ – _close enough now that the tailor shouldn’t have to fret about you growing_.”

“I hardly have control over that!” Obi-Wan protests, embarrassed under the queens teasing. “But I will, of course, subject myself to however many fitting scans you please. It’s your wedding, after all.”

“ _So humble_.” Breha’s eyes sparkle, even in blue holo, and a dimple appears in her cheek. Her hair was not the long coif it had once been, but a year on and she was able to return to some of the more elaborate styles, and the coiled braids preferred by Alderaani high society. “I can’t wait to see you in the blue.”

Obi-Wan blushes a little. “I’m still not sure how well that will go over.” He murmurs. Breha had firmly claimed he right to have Obi-Wan as her guest, as Master Ben would be Bail’s, but Breha still hadn’t quite forgiven House Antilles, and as such, in a rather non-traditional and bold maneuver, had deemed that her witnessing guests would wear the deep royal blue, as opposed to Antilles bronze.

“ _It’s my wedding_.” Breha parrots back at him, and Obi-Wan concedes, again. “ _And not that I do not respect the Jedi’s preferred fashion, but Ben was a delight to see in a suit, and I can only imagine the same will be said of you_.”

Obi-Wan’s ears are burning, and his blush starts to spread to his face. He tries to say something witty, and only ends up coughing instead. Breha laughs, delighted.

“I am most flattered by your regard, Queen Breha.” He manages, offering up a smile.

“ _I can hear hearts shattering, Obi-Wan Kenobi_.” She tells him. “ _May all the little gods preserve us when you actually learn how to use that charm of yours_.”

Obi-Wan groans, lifting his hands to cover his face. “Please stop.” He begs. “I think I have- there’s this thing- that I should – not be here-“

“ _Oh, alright, enough teasing. Don’t run away_.” She softens.

“A Jedi would _never_.” Obi-Wan sputters

“ _You’re not always a Jedi, you know_.” She points out, tone lilting towards seriousness. “ _You’re a young man too_.”

Obi-Wan blinks, and studies the harder edge of her gaze, pouring back at him from worlds away. “I know.”

“ _Do you_?” Breha returns, arching one beautiful brow.

Obi-Wan hesitates. “Not really, no. What do you mean by that?”

“ _There is a difference between not having things and giving them up_.” Breha says. “ _You’re young, and I know you are a Jedi, but sometimes I fear you are made sacrifice too much without truly understanding that_.”

Obi-Wan frowns at the sudden diverge into philosophy, and considers her statement. “Some would say that it is easier, to never have had something, then to have had it and lost it.”

“ _Perhaps it is easier_.” Breha concedes. “ _But is the ease of it worth the ignorance_?”

Obi-Wan is stumped. And confused. “Is there - is there something should know?” He asks.

Breha glances away and sighs, tapping her fingers. “ _Oh, I apologize for being maudlin. It’s just that I’m the verge of my wedding, and I suppose it makes my heart ache, that you’ll stand by me, but there will never be such a day where I could stand by you for the same purpose_.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan replies softly. She is right, of course, that Obi-Wan will likely never marry, never have a wedding, or a family. Or, well, hadn’t been likely. Shmi was changing things, they were all changing things, but he supposes, he’d never really considered it. Marriage. Family. Children. Not in the usual sense.

“Obi-Wan?” His master calls out, and Obi-Wan twitches a little, turning his head towards the door of his room.

“My master appears to be back.” The padawan tells the Queen.

Breha sighs, one corner of her mouth quirking slightly. “ _I really should return to my duties. And to the planning._ ”

“I thought you liked planning?” Obi-Wan teases.

“ _I do_.” Breha replies dryly. “ _But not party planning, and I am not the one in charge of the wedding_.”

“But you’re the Queen of Alderaan!” Obi-Wan mock protests, a grin tugging at his lips. "No one can tell you what to do."

“ _Try telling that to my aunts and cousins.”_ Breha replies resignedly.

Obi-Wan makes a show of thinking about it. “I’m not sure I’m that bold.”

Breha smiles, shaking her head at him, and bids her goodbye. Obi-Wan returns it, and ventures out of his room to find his master patiently waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: In case you haven't noticed, this particular arc is more about me putting some order into my myriad of plot threads than about any particular theme, as I am preparing for the deep dive into the next three arcs/fics of The Desert Storm saga. As such, I apologize if it seems to meander a bit.


	31. Chapter 31

“Was that Breha?” Master Ben inquires, just returned from a session with his holocron, if Obi-Wan has his masters schedule right.

“She needed one last fitting scan, and to be momentarily distracted.” Obi-Wan reports. Master Ben nods, as if this is all par the course. Then he pauses, eyeing Obi-Wan up and down, lips pursed.

“You _haven’t_ grown again, have you?” He asks, as if faintly despairing. Obi-Wan was only perhaps a half-inch shorter than his master now, though far more stringy that the older man.

“Not noticeably.” Obi-Wan replies. His master sighs, and Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “Where are you off to next, then?” Obi-Wan prompts.

“Beg pardon?” Master Ben lifts an amused brow. “Are you trying to chase me off? Do you have plans?”

Obi-Wan frowns, shaking his head. “No, but we’ve barely managed anything more than meals together in weeks.”

“I distinctly recall we’ve been working on a plasma buckler several times a week.” His master’s brows go up. “And your saber forms.”

“With the boys, or Padawan Keeto, or your remedial knights.”

“They aren’t remedial.” Master Ben’s lips twists, tone exasperated.

“If _I_ can beat them, then their saber training is most certainly remedial.” Obi-Wan counters, thinking knighthood should imply an inherent superiority of skills over a padawan, even a gifted padawan. Obi-Wan was barely a Senior, not yet anywhere near his own knighting. He should perhaps pose a challenge, but they should still be able to beat him.

“That’s not entirely fair.” Master Ben protests, looking slightly perplexed and decidedly irritated – probably because a part of him agrees with his padawan’s point of view. “Not all Knights perform combat duties. You know that.”

“Does that matter? They should know how to defend themselves if we have to deal with the Sith.” Obi-Wan retorts, bitter about the sour taste of fear he felt for them, whenever they failed. If they couldn’t even face _him_ , they were _dead_ -

“They’re trying. That’s why they train with us.” Master Ben says. “And ideally, none of them will have to deal with the Sith.”

“The Sith aren’t just going to politely fuck off.” Obi-Wan snaps, wondering why his master pushed them all so fucking hard if he truly believed that.

“ _Obi-Wan_.” Master Ben snaps, arms crossing. “What is the matter with you?”

Obi-Wan bites his tongue, grinds his jaw, and looks away.

“Apologies, Master.” He grumbles.

“Not good enough.” Master Ben snaps harshly. “Now tell me what’s _wrong_.”

Obi-Wan grinds his teeth, body brimming with tension and stress. “I don’t – I don’t know _how_.” He confesses, still braced for a fight his master won’t give him.

“Oh, padawan.”

Master Ben’s arm comes around his shoulder, and he guides him to the couch, Obi-Wan still feeling too humiliated to look up at him. Obi-Wan collapses at the knees into sitting – he doesn’t have much choice in the matter, actually – and Master Ben settles beside him, rib to rib and shoulder to shoulder. “Can you try?” He asks softly, all patience and waiting wisdom that Obi-Wan both bristles away from and craves deeply.

“I….” Obi-Wan starts off hopelessly. “It’s like – there’s too much going on, and not enough. No, I don’t know.” Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“Ah.” His master breathes out knowingly. “Is it like the things you are doing aren’t the things you should be doing?”

“I’m not shirking my duties. I mean, I know I’m not taking as many classes as I should be-“ the padawan tries to explain, exuding stress and self-reproach.

“With good reason –“ Master Ben tries to mollify that claim, but Obi-Wan isn’t listening.

“ - but it’s… it’s not my studies, or my training, Master, it’s – it’s _everything_.” He digs his fingers into his knees, wishing he could dig that _restless-itchy-despairing_ sheer emotional discharge right out of his skin.

“You know you could have come to me. I’ve noticed you’ve been-“

“You’re busy, master, and it’s not like – I just - I don’t know how to fix this, but I feel like I should be able to.”

Master Ben grinds his jaw, quiet for a beat, and then tries again. “I will _never_ be too busy for you. All you have to do is ask.”

Obi-Wan puffs out an impatient rebuttal. “But I feel _guilty_ for asking. I’m not the only one who needs your guidance. The temple-“

“Comes second to my padawan.” The Mandalorian master declares sharply.

Obi-Wan glances up, finally. “Er… I don’t think that’s exactly…. acceptable.”

“In point of fact, it is.” His master replies gamely, squeezing his shoulder, but staring back at him with an intense blue-grey gaze. “I made an oath to you, an oath every master makes when they take a padawan; to teach you, train you, guide you, to support you and protect you until that support and protection is no longer necessary. That vow comes before all others save the Jedi Code. As skilled and competent as you are, Obi-Wan, you _are_ still a padawan. It is your right to need me, and my responsibility to care for your needs.”

“I’m embarrassed now.” Obi-Wa mutters, squirming.

“More like you want out of this conversation.” Master Ben replies in a dry huff.

“I want out of this conversation.” Obi-Wan admits.

“No.” Master Ben refuses.

“I _need_ out of this conversation?” Obi-Wan tries.

Master Ben’s hand drifts up from his shoulder and finds his padawan braid, tugging lightly, and Obi-Wan surrenders, slumping into his master’s side.

“I feel like… like I’m wasting time. We’re usually more…proactively involved than this. Shmi doesn’t need our help anymore, and I’m still taking light classes, but we’re not on the mission roster and with everything going on with my friends, I just- I need something to _do_.”

“You are doing something. You are teaching skills to others no one else can teach, and you are learning skills no one else dared learn. I haven’t put us back on the mission roster, Obi-Wan, in part because the classes we teach are necessary and it’s rather rude to abandon our students, and in part because I rather thought we could use the break.” His master sighs, running fingers through his short beard with a bit of despondency that clearly, his plan had not worked out so well if his padawan was in such a state.

“I’m fairly certain you’re busier than ever,” Obi-Wan scoffs. “Which makes me feel even more useless.”

Master Ben pursed his lips in displeasure at that comment, and lifts his fingers from the braid to cup the base of Obi-Wan’s skull, and drop their brows together.

“You are not useless.” He informs him resolutely.

“But I feel that way.”

“Because there is nothing you can do about the things you cannot control?” Master Ben inquires pointedly.

 _That’s it_. Obi-Wan thinks, nodding in surrender to a painful truth. _That’s exactly it_. There’s nothing he can do right now, about Quinlan, about Siri, about the Sith, or Shmi, and it eats at him, because he feels like he should be able to do something, and he can’t, and that leaves him feeling trapped with the anxiety of it.

And it makes the things he can do feel bothersome, and irritating, and inadequate. Because it doesn’t feel like teaching Force Structures, and tutoring Shadow-Walking, or learning Magicks are providing any real successes, and the effort it takes, to remain engaged, to seem enthusiastic, to be patient with his students, with himself – it galls. It infuriates him. It makes him feel helpless, and when he feels that way, he tries to fight it, to meditate, or train, to push emotion into kinetic energy, and when that’s not enough-

He tries to find his master.

Who never seemed to be there when he needs him to be.

But that was a lie, wasn’t it? Because Obi-Wan was so wrapped up in that feeling of helplessness, that he made his master’s absence just another aspect of it, when all he had to do was-

Start an argument, apparently, because Master Ben wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t abandoning his padawan.

“Yeah.”

“There’s no real cure for that, I’m afraid.” Master Ben sighs, lifting his head to press his lips to Obi-Wan’s – admittedly a little greasy - hair.

Obi-Wan grumbles.

“Is there more to it than that?” Master Ben asks, breath ruffling Obi-Wan’s scalp. “That you feel you can confide in me?” He adds thoughtfully. “I’ve meant to be keeping better tabs on you, but it seems I’m not very good at it. I had thought that giving you a lighter work load would help alleviate some of the pressure you felt you were under, not make it worse.”

Obi-Wan shudders a bit, and reluctantly admits to it. “It just doesn’t… feel right, to take it easy, when we know – what we know.” Obi-Wan sighs, leaning over his knees and hanging his head a bit. He steels himself, and peaks over at Master Ben. “But beyond that…I get…. jealous.” He confesses.

“Jealous?” Master Ben sounds surprised. “Is that about Padawan Keeto, or Disciple Chun?” He inquires astutely, and Obi-Wan winces.

“Not- not exactly. Or…erm…entirely? I get jealous of… of – you not being around. For just me.” Obi-Wan doesn’t want to pull away, because he doesn’t think he can look his master in the eye and say this, so he says it to the man’s shoulder instead. “It’s good that you’re – reaching out more. And relying on your friends. But sometimes I miss when it was just… us. And I get jealous too that you’ll rely on them, but not… me. And I know that’s selfish, and I shouldn’t feel that way-“

“No one can tell you what you should and shouldn’t feel, Obi-Wan. Just what you should and shouldn’t _do_ with those feelings.” His master sighs. “And to be perfectly forthright, you’re only human. You’re allowed your vices and your flaws, you know.”

“A Jedi should seek to overcome them.” The teenager mutters.

“No one is strong forever, and no one should have to be. Not even a Jedi.”

“But what am I supposed to do, when I can’t be strong?” Obi-Wan grumbles. “I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“Trust me, Obi-Wan, you’re nowhere near crazy yet.” Master Ben chuffs.

“That’s _so_ reassuring.”

“Padawan.” Master Ben chides him, hand on his shoulder again and pushing him back, so they’re eye to eye again. “When you can’t be strong, find somewhere or someone safe, and let yourself be weak, until you can be strong again. That’s all we can do.”

“Well, I’m _here_.” Obi-Wan points out, voice stretching thin.

“Then stop fighting what you’re feeling, and just feel it. I meant it when I said we could use the break, and this is part of the reason why. We don’t always have the privilege of being safe enough to be weak.”

“So what, take advantage of the opportunity?”

“More or less.”

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I was mad at you. I wanted to be mad at you. It’s really kriffing hard to be mad at you when you’re so damn reasonable.”

His master grins. “Something you may wish to keep in mind, Padawan. But if you are still looking for that fight, I’m sure I could oblige you in the salles.”

“And then what?” Obi-Wan mutters.

“And then we can eat fried noodles and wallow, I suppose, in the utter unfairness of the universe. For one night, at least.”

Obi-Wan laughs against his will. “For one night.” He agrees.


	32. Chapter 32

A long, low, grumbly groan draws Ben out of sleep. He wakes with a crooked neck, a telling headache, and Obi-Wan’s heel wedged into his armpit, the pair of them wedged on opposite ends of the couch which was no longer quite as accommodating as it once had been.

Obi-Wan snuffles a breath, brow furrowing intensely as he attempts to force his eyes open, and offers another pitiful groan, freeing one hand from under his side and the other from his tangled tabbards to cradle his skull. “Oh, _why_?” The teenager whines.

Ben feels a grin stretch across his face and chuckles. “That’s called a hangover, padawan mine.”

“Ugh. I don’t want it.” Obi-Wan complains, twisting to further attempt to bury himself in the seam of the couch, and Anakin’s beaded, brightly colored pillows. “This is dreadful. Awful. Why would anyone enjoy drinking?”

Ben wrestles his own arm free from being trapped, numb, under his hip and Obi-Wan’s knee, and lays the cool palm over his own eyes. “You enjoyed it plenty last night, if I recall. And hangover’s can be avoided.”

“Why – why didn’t we do that?” Obi-Wan grouses irritably.

“Sorry?” Ben offers. “The trick is hydration. And carbs.”

He hadn’t actually intended to get his padawan drunk, but Obi-Wan, with all the enthusiasm of the uninitiated, had drank rather _quickly_. Maybe they should both simply consider it a lesson learned.

“Nnng.” Obi-Wan moans, and Ben thinks rather ruefully that his padawan is rather talkative for someone experiencing their first hangover. Ben himself could use a little quiet for a moment, thank you very much.

He’d been rather talkative last night too.

Ben had poured him a drink to get him to actually relax, as he tensed up the more he spoke, like his emotions held a direct link to a corkscrew in his spine. Additionally, he didn’t think it was a terrible idea to start coaching his rapidly-maturing padawan in the hazards, benefits, and cultural precedents of libation.

“I miss you, sometimes.” Obi-Wan had confessed, not entirely out of the blue, but most definitely as the alcohol had started to make his senses swim, if Ben were to guess.

“I am right here, Obi-Wan.” Ben had reassured him, feeling guilty that he hadn’t noticed how much his padawan was struggling. He’d been aware of Obi-Wan’s increasing temper, but he’d thought his padawan had wanted distance from him, not the opposite. Ben, at that age and in a temper, had preferred to avoid his master. But Obi-Wan, he ruefully reflects, isn’t Ben, and Ben isn’t Qui-Gon Jinn.

“I know. But I still sometimes feel like you’re missing.” His padawan had replied, one hand rubbing just below his collarbone. “Since Dathomir. I feel like something’s gone, like they took something from me, and I don’t know what it was. I thought it was just… you keeping secrets. But it hurts, and sometimes I think it’s more than just that.”

Ben had felt a chill creep down his spine, curling around the edges of his thoughts at his padawan’s confession, a sinking feeling in his chest. Something _was_ gone, and the more he considered it, the more Ben believes that it was not something the Night Witch took, but something Ben himself had.

Ben had taken his younger self, and finally turned him in to someone else, and in doing so, broken the link that bound Obi-Wan Kenobi to Ben Naasade.

He’s noticed they haven’t shared dreams since Dathomir, though he thinks his padawan believes it’s because his master is having less nightmares. He’s remarked that he thinks his master is sleeping better, and Ben hasn’t had the heart to correct him. But the truth is something more significant than that. Ben has finally freed Obi-Wan from the fate that resulted in Ben’s own existence – perhaps not from the events he still fears lay ahead of them, but from the more personal scars and failings, from the flaws in his character, from the choices that lead him here – because Obi-Wan Kenobi as Ben is looking at him right now is no longer the same Obi-Wan Kenobi Ben himself was born. He’s a different person. A better one, Ben thinks with pride.

So whatever aspect of the Force which had recognized two shades of the same soul and bound them together, bleeding their existences into each other – it had frayed and worn down, and, when forced to confront the truth, Ben had finally lost whatever last desperate hold which kept it together, and it had snapped, leaving only a wound.

He’d known Obi-Wan had seen it, and not understood, but Ben hadn’t known that Obi-Wan still _felt_ its absence.

But why shouldn’t he? It had been an unknown but intrinsic part of his life, of his _existence_ , for over three years, rooted in the deepest, most inherent parts of himself and his connection to the universe.

Something had been cleaved from his soul. He didn’t have to know the shape and scope of it to feel the wound it left behind, to mourn it.

“Perhaps. But I will make an effort to be more present, Obi-Wan.” Ben had murmured in response, and Obi-Wan had peered at him with surprising clarity for someone in his first flush of alcoholic intolerance before murmuring gratitude and changing the subject to delicately imply that Ben need not sacrifice any relationships on his behalf, managing to somehow imply, in the midst of that, certain indiscretions in regards to Master Fay.

Ben won’t claim the possibility hasn’t sparked once or twice between himself and Fay, but that was not something he felt comfortable discussing with his sixteen year old half-drunk padawan. Or his sixteen year old sober one, for that matter, should Obi-Wan attempt to bring _that_ up again.

“But you’re so _lonely_.” Obi-Wan had protested, at one point, when Ben had been sputtering.

“Less and less, in no small part thanks to you and your efforts.” Ben had replies, tugging Obi-Wan’s padawan braid and topping off the teenagers glass in the hopes of shutting him up on that particular subject – _not_ his wisest decision, really.

Ben peeks out from under his hand, to find Obi-Wan slipping rapidly back into sleep, and resigns himself to rousting them both – in no small part due to the atrociously uncomfortable crick in his neck.

He grunts, forcing himself to sit upright, dislodging Obi-Wan’s foot and trying not to spill the teenager off the couch as he extracted himself – he wasn’t _that_ rude. He pads to the kitchen and fills a putcher of water, bringing it back and setting it and a glass next to his padawan’s head.

“Drink.” He instructs, sipping from his own glass.

“Mng. Bad idea.” Obi-Wan grumbles, curling up into a pitiful ball on the couch. Ben’s lips twitch into a ridiculously fond smile.

“I assure you, it’s an excellent idea, and not one you’re allowed to resist.” Ben tuts. Obi-Wan growls and forces himself up, flopping over and swinging his legs down. “You will feel better.”

“I’m fairly certain hangover cures exist.” Obi-Wan mutters sourly.

“And you are perfectly welcome to go to the healers and ask for one.” Ben smiles, not mentioning that Jedi tricks also exist for handling hangovers, but he thinks it’s good to let Obi-Wan suffer the consequences at least once.

His padawan glowers up at him.

“I thought not.” Ben chirps, gulping his own glass and heading back to the kitchen, pleased to discover they had leftovers, and he wouldn’t actually have to prepare breakfast so much as reheat it. “You have class in an hour. Afterwards, meet me in our spot in the gardens. It’s been awhile since we meditated together, just you and I.”

“Just you and I?” Obi-Wan repeats, looking more alert.

“Just you and I.” Ben affirms, and is rewarded with Obi-Wan’s small, pleased smile behind the rim of his glass.

~*~

Obi-Wan stares at the clay vase, whole and intact, sitting in front of him, lifts a hand to cover his face, and smiles futilely into his palm.

Magick needed something more than understanding, just a touch of something more than perspective or faith. It reached deeper than use of the Force required.

“Obi-Wan?” Tsui asks, pleased for him for finally, finally getting it. This first step, at least, whereas Tsui, under Yaddle’s guidance, had moved on to attempting the mending of plants, though the shade of difference between Magick and Force Healing seemed to catch even the wizened master up, at times, as she attempted to adjust to the method of the teachings the Nightsister’s had provided.

“Thing’s cannot heal by going back to what they were.” Obi-Wan mutters begrudgingly. It wasn’t about rearrangement, about the give and take, about philosophy or science or even energy. It hindered on the essence, on the indefinable but undeniable truth of a thing. On accepting entirely what he can’t put into words. “And it seems I am very slow on accepting that things _have_ to change.”

Which he knew, on the grand scale. _Ka’ra_ , he was a figurehead for change within the Order, one of the idols for that promising future they were trying to build. But with himself, it was a different story. He hadn’t wanted things to change, between him and his friends, between him and his master. His lightsaber still weighs heavy on his belt, more kin to his hand now, if not to his spirit. A symbol of his reluctance for things to change about himself, within himself, as well.

But the point of life, of growth, of healing, the ability of things to fall apart and come back together necessitated change, within and without.

And all the reluctance and denial, intentional or not, acknowledged or not, couldn’t stop that. Everything tilted forward, an ever-immutable slide of progress towards the unknown and frightening future. We have to step forward. We have no choice.

“Growing up is complicated and uncomfortable.” Tsui says sagely, unfairly channeling his master’s wisdom through his young, awkwardly gangly Aleen self. “But you’re starting to get there.” He encourages.

Obi-Wan drops his hand from his face, eyeing his friend. “You are _younger_ than I am.” The Mandalorian padawan points out grousely.

Tsui offers a thin, playful smirk. “Some of us get there faster.”


	33. Chapter 33

Bultar Swan is the Senior Padawan Learner to one Master Micah Giett. Her master is a good, respectable jedi, though not as renowned as some. He is easy to like, and it surprises many that such an affable man produced such a rigidly strict padawan.

But underneath her resolutely self-disciplined exterior, they would find that Bultar Swan, like Micah Giett before her, enjoys the simplicities of life, and suffers from a hardy, very practical mindset.

It was a good cloth to cut a Jedi from, and Bultar Swan was a very promising Jedi, among the top percentile of her peers in both educational and physical disciplines, and a front-runner to be Head of the Order one day.

Which is what had earned her her current place in the Padawan Seat on the Jedi High Council.

The calm reserve on her young face, and the expectation her youth, her learning, present in this context, gives Master Mace Windu just enough stubborn pride not to lose his own bearing when Padawan Shmi Skywalker follows Padawan Luminara Unduli into the Council Chamber, looking like she’s swallowed a small moon and daring any of them to comment on it.

Master Fay giggles, and then claps a hand over her mouth, looking not the least apologetic.

~*~

Shaak Ti meets her outside the Halls of Healing, hours later, calling out to her as Healer Ni Hiella shoos her away with blunt affection. “Shmi!” Shaak calls out, trilling a chirp to better catch her attention as she strides her way.

Shmi turns with a smile, turnt wryly at the edges, which Shaak Ti understands completely.

“Master.” Shmi greets, taking her offered hands when they come together. Shmi is pale, almost chalkily so, after two months of space stations and starships and no real sunlight, but a peachy flush glows in her cheeks, and the lack of dark circles says good things for her health. Shaak can sense-feel the baby’s heartbeat echoing Shmi’s own, and its fluttery motions and restless stretching. A little over seven months along and Shaak had been worried that perhaps this mission would take too long, and she’d have to recall her padawan from the field.

But Shmi and Luminara had made their own calls, bringing in back-up in the form of ExploraCorps trained Journeymen and tackling the uncharted regions from all sides, forming their map outward in. It was still nothing more than basic travel lanes and rough regional divisions, but it was enough progress to settle matters between Dol Moranda and Sathas satisfactorily.

They did well. They did very well.

The distraction of Shmi’s pregnancy aside, the two padawans had conducted themselves well, both in the field and in that Council chamber, delivering honest reports and evaluations, of themselves and of each other.

“The Council appears to be learning.” Shmi remarks, and Shaak blinks, before understanding dawns. Yes, there had been shock, surprise, dismay, but none of the drastic theatrics Shaal had faced the day she’d declared Shmi Skywalker her padawan. The Council _was_ learning. Adapting.

“If Master Winu had hair,” Shaak remarks. “ he’d be gray before his time.”

Shmi laughs, and the baby kicks a little more enthusiastically. Shmi draws her hands out of Shaak Ti’s rosy colored ones, laying one over the swell of her stomach, and the other in the crook of Shaak Ti’s arm as they turn to walk the corridor. “All is well?” Shaak inquires, tipping her montrals down towards Shmi’s rounded belly.

“You would know if it was not.” Shmi replies, a little exasperatedly. “Ni Hiella required scans every forty-eight hours while I was away.”

“Jedi enjoy fussing.” Shaak says, teasing. “You’ll simply have to endure, my dear padawan.”

“Ar-Amu preserve me.” Shmi mutters, but squeezes Shaak Ti’s arm, not truly peeved.

Shaak Ti takes a measured, easy breath, guiding Shmi back towards their quarters, where the boys were restlessly feigning doing their assigned classwork while waiting for their mother. Ben and Obi-Wan would join them for supper, and in the morning, the Council would deliver their determination upon Shmi and Padawan Unduli’s progress towards Knighthood.

“Did you see Tholme?” Shaak inquires. She does take care not to pry into Shmi’s personal relationship too terribly, but it her duty as both Shmi’s master and her friend to keep tabs on it.

“He was leaving as I landed.” Shmi smiles sweetly, a small, content look as she drums her fingers over her womb. “He’s escorting Aayla’s class to Ilum.” Something in the memory must get to her, because her nose crinkles in amusement, and she glances away for a moment. Shaak Ti allows her the quiet pleasure, and feels ease spread through her that all is truly well.

“May the Force be with him.” Shaak says, half teasing, and Shmi looks back to her, brow raised.

“Children are _not_ so difficult.” The amavikkan mother insists.

~*~

Ben begs out of a round with Captain Rozess, deciding he’d rather avoid bruises today, and disengages himself from conversation with Master Bondera and Master Tapal.

He’s picking up the Mystral style from the Guard Captain well enough, but he’s a novice yet in the Tera Kasi techniques, struggling to nullify himself in the Force in the way the techniques required. They are all learning, this small collective of highly skilled masters, though their abilities to cross-train were hit and miss.

Dooku had recused himself from what Ben and Master Koon had to teach when his practice ran away from Emerald Techniques and slid too close to the Dark Side. Ben had spoken with him, at length, and this tendency seemed to trouble Dooku himself as well. Things are so different now. Ben doesn’t think he’ll fall this time. Prays he won’t. But he doesn’t _know_.

The techniques which were closer to Magicks than Force stumped most of the Fold, but Force-Structures and Shadow-Walking they grasped well enough.

Ben had his eye on Master Anoon Bondera though. The older twi’lek showed the most versatility, picking up the more challenging lessons quicker than the rest. Ben liked him, moreover, Ben saw in him not only a prime Sith-Hunter, but a prize candidate for future Battlemaster. With a little convincing. Ben smiled at the narrowed, red side-eye he got at times, and lets his thoughts – and his recent training- sink in his mind, like stones settling beneath water, becoming obscured in sediment beneath, the practice of guarding his mind as simple and rote as changing his clothes, showering, and tracking down his padawan for dinner.

‘ _You’re late. I’m already here_.’ Obi-Wan broadcasts to him, when Ben drifts a slightly hurried inquiry down their master-padawan bond.

‘ _I had to escape the clutches of a very aggressive blonde_.’ Ben thinks, huffing as he set off for the Ti/Skywalker quarters, hair still damp.

‘ _I think that’s more than I needed to know_.’ Obi-Wan replies, with a faint touch of glee and mortification.

‘ _Not like that_!’ Ben retorts, grumbling to himself. _Teenagers_ , he thinks sourly. His padawan was not subtle. At all.

Still, Obi-Wan was better than Knight Billaba, who made up thinner and thinner excuses and arranged less and less ‘coincidental’ circumstances which put her former master in the same room alone with Master Gallia.

The real tragedy there, however, was that Mace _still_ couldn’t seem to catch the hint.

Ben arrives to Anakin and Shaak Ti having a very polite argument in the kitchen about whichever dish they were cooking together; Jax sitting on Obi-Wan’s shoulders as they both try and fill Shmi in on whatever wasn’t covered by her bi-weekly holocalls home; and a heady warm rush of family-home-happiness that soaks into his bones.

“Shmi.” Ben grins, pleased and truly happy to see her. She’s looking over fond if nor confused, as Obi-Wan’s verbal conversation overlaps Jax’s hand-sign and they switch aimlessly between speaking to her and conversing with each other.

She turns to him with a touch of relief and Ben offers his hands, helping her up – noticing with some awe how large she’s gotten and decidedly choosing to never remark upon that fact. Shmi is without doubt aware, viscerally, of the fact, and it would not be polite to remind her. “Ben.” She greets quietly, with simple affection, which he had missed. She glows richly in the Force, the extra life cradled next to her own no longer an enhancement of her own Force presence, but becoming something tangible and distinct in it's own right, flickering with the sparks of potential.

His grin gentles, warmer and softer for how dearly he realizes he did miss his friend, and her hands squeeze his fingers, and that’s about the time something in the kitchen shatters, sounding like crockery.

“Oops!”

They share a look of complete, resigned understanding.

“ _Anakin_.”


	34. Chapter 34

The Council deliberates early in the morning, summoning Shaak Ti and Jamal Vumoyo respectively to discuss the standing and progress of their padawans, and ultimately they come to an agreement.

A decision.

Shaak Ti follows her sense of her padawan to the gardens, after, seeking her out and finding her in the mist that followed the early rain cycle, her tunics and hair damp to her skin, which prickled with the chill, though a sense of giddy relief suffused the Force around her. Shaak Ti’s padawan was still as enamored with rain as ever. Her padawan braid is a dark streak ending in a colorful bead at her shoulder, the rest of her hair a longer braid down her back, and her dark eyes are all settled warmth when she turns towards her master, offering a serene smile.

Shaak Ti almost regrets what happens next, at the brilliant sight of her padawan as close to inner peace as Shaak Ti has ever seen her.

“Walk with me.” Shaak Ti requests, and Shmi nods, stepping up to her side, damp fingers finding Shaak Ti’s elbow, leaning in to her balance a bit. Her tunics hung loose, the damp accentuating the swell of her stomach, and Shmi’s gait was beginning to waddle with the added mass and weight.

The Council had agreed there was no Trial they could set that would compare to those which Shmi had already endured long before any Jedi ever knew her name. She met every requirement expected of her in education, in philosophy, in physical discipline and in grasp and understanding of the Force.

But Knighthood was not so easily defined, was no simple checkmark on a list. It was about more than their external accomplishments. Knighthood was defined by ones spirit, by their capability, by their faith, and by their personal growth, that which resided within themselves, defiant of quantification and measurement.

And it needed to be recognized.

Shaak Ti stops next to a pond, surrounded by curling grasses and moss-laden rocks. The dark of fish flash beneath a calm surface, and the gardens around them are quiet. “You introduced yourself to me here.” Shaak Ti reminds her companion, who looks askance with a slight pinch to her brow. This is _not_ where they met, but that is not what Shaak Ti means. “Shmi Ekkreth, She Who Walks the Sky and Sees the Way.”

Understanding lights a sharp brown gaze, and Shmi nods, smile curling at the memory. Shaak Ti helps Shmi lower herself comfortably to sit, and settles herself down against one of the mossy rocks, so like that day so long ago. Everything just the same, except the two of them.

Shmi huffs a little, hand over the swell of her stomach, and Shaak Ti can sense the baby stretching and kicking. Shaak Ti observes in fascination as Shmi focuses, as if to enter a light meditative trance, and her Force presence seems to tighten, condensing and stilling, flowing into a simple rhythm of breath and exhale, heartbeat and pulse, and the baby calms and settles, it’s fledgling, not-quite Force presence falling into an echo of that self-control.

It takes a moment for Shaak to recognize that Shmi is watching her, amused, waiting for whatever she has to say.

Shaak Ti blinks, feeling a little sheepish, and takes a breath.

“I want you to tell me a story.” Shaak Ti asks softly.

“Which story?” Shmi inquires, a hesitation entering her eyes as she senses the shape of the answer Shaak Ti will give her, but she asks anyways.

“I want you to tell me the story of Shmi Skywalker.” Shaak Ti replies.

Shmi turns quiet, drawn in, the calm of her presence faltering. But she does not hide. She looks back at the togruta with a spark of defiance and the shadow of pain in her eyes, and eventually, she nods, and another chain breaks.

Her lips trembles softly on an inhale, and her exhale resolves it. Shmi lifts her head, and when she speaks, her voice is clear. “In a desert not so long ago…” Her throat closes, pain or anger Shaak Ti isn’t certain, but Shmi hardens, and continues. “I was not born Shmi Skywalker. I was not born a person. I was born a slave, and they did not give me a name. They gave me a number. I was two years old before Nuna Skywalker gave me the only thing a slave truly can call their own – she took me in her arms and told me that I was a person, that my name would be Shmi, and that I was going to live. That is where my story starts.”

~*~

“Luminara, are you ready?” Her master inquires, scarred face serene, calm presence wavering with hints of _fondness-trepidation-pride_ as he looks over the grown woman she has become.

After a night of solitude and vigil in meditation, she is dearly heartened to have a moment with him before what comes next. She looks to heavy door across the room from her, tucked away here deep in the core of the Temple, and weighs her own estimation of herself against what might await in the Chamber of Trial.

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Luminara replies cheerily, and her master’s eyes fold in soft resignation.

“You are ready.” He repeats himself, but it is no longer a question. The Chamber of Trial was old, and not often used – most Jedi found their Trials in the field, and the Council had moved away from the old methods. The Chamber of Trial was effective, a test drawn out of the Force itself, but it was also brutal. It broke the unprepared, and could drive mad the unworthy. It used to take longer to reach Knighthood, a lot longer, when a Chamber of Trial was the only true test, and when failure on that front was final, even if it wasn’t fatal (usually, though there were rumors.) These days, necessity and compassion had opened up less drastic avenues on the path towards becoming a Jedi, but there were cases…

Cases like Luminara Unduli. A good academic. A good disciple. Devout and dedicated and yet somehow never truly challenged by what she faced – not by the measure her skills, which had been tested and sometimes found wanting - but in the measure of her spirit.

Some would say she was simply a spirit born to be a Jedi. Others would say she simply never considered being anything or anyone else. But how could they _know_?

The door is stone, hewn, not molded, with a worn, archaic symbol of the Jedi Order on it’s face. Colored once, perhaps, but the color now was all but faded completely. Luminara has been looking at it all night, taking in it’s weight, its history, marveling at the obscured and forgotten origins which had brought the Jedi to where they were today, and where they would go from here.

And Luminara Unduli would be a part of that.

“I’m ready.” She says, holding her masters gaze for a moment.

“Maybe I’m not.” He murmurs ruefully, shaking his head. “Remember, Luminara; In that Chamber, it’s only what you take with you.”

“It’s everything I take with me.” Luminara corrects softly. She won’t deny being anxious, perhaps being scared, but she won’t indulge those sensations. She _fears_ failure, but she does not _believe_ she will fail.

Her master’s gaze goes both soft and solemn, and he bows to her. Luminara bows deeply, honored by all he has taught her and all she has learned as his padawan, and she steps away.

Her steps carry her to the door, and her fingers brush the surface, like thousands upon thousands of padawans before her, and the stone falls back as the door opens, inviting her in.

Luminara takes a breath, and crosses the threshold.

~*~

The room inside is identical to the room she has spent the night meditating in, the room outside, yet something….it’s identical, but not quite _right_. Something about the air, about the light….

Luminara steps forward, and the tiled walls seem to fold away, corridors appearing around the rounded edge of the first pair of columns that could not have been here before. Luminara pauses, looking down them, but dust drifting in light beams mixes with shadows and the ends blur into obscurity, unknown.

A breeze tickles her neck, and Luminara turns softly, wondering where it came from. Where there was a door there is no longer a door, but an archway opening to a landscape and sky.

Blue fields and hills of grass under a pale grey-yellow sky.

She steps through the arch, down the stairs and onto the ground. The breeze rippled the landscape like water, shimmering and whispering.

It’s beautiful, and yet…. in spite of the life and pure nature before her, something about the open, empty sky feels stifling; the endless stretch of grass, nothing but grass, feels barren. Even the breeze, neither warming nor cooling, felt instead numbing with the sheer indifference of its quality.

“Which is better? Passion, or Serenity?” She is asked.

Luminara stares over the landscape. “There is no passion, there is serenity.” She replies, by rote.

“And you cling to that, don’t you?” She’s accused. Luminara turns around, and finds herself, standing there; the same clothes, the same face, yet something about her other-image so much more captivating, more animated, more expressive.

Dark lips twist, pitying and hurt and demanding all at once, eyes swimming. “Because you haven’t a spark of passion, because you simply don’t have those deep, consuming feelings that makes life seem so damn precious and worthy, that inspires poetry, and loyalty, and challenges the odds.” Her hands move as she speak, the motions loud, her voice catches and clings to the words, tone vivid enough to make something in Luminara herself ache.

And in that ache is a chill, is doubt.

Because Luminara had been challenged in her life, but she has never felt as if her heart and soul has ever been tested, and without being tested, can she truly be worthy?

Padawan became Jedi Knights by overcoming their faults and their failings.

Luminara has never looked at herself and found much of either. That is not pride. That is fact.

“It is not a crime to have a quiet soul.” She refutes, wishing she were as certain as she sounded. Wishing she knew, instead of just reassuring herself.

A scoff, sharp and bitter. “ Quiet? You aren’t quiet.” The other accuses, finally stepping down towards her with a stalk, full of offended pride and damnation. Her royal blue eyes narrow on herself. “You’re cold. Unfeeling. Passionless. Void.” A sharp, cruel laugh. “And you won’t even _deny_ it.”

Luminara is captivated by the others vitality, by the others emotion and energy, even as she can’t help but feel appalled by it, even embarrassed, because that’s _her_. But it’s _not_.

“Because you are wrong.” Luminara refutes. 

A sneer, dark and daring. Expressive hands take up her saber, which lights with a charge and crackle it’s never had before, the bright line more intense, but less controlled. Her gaze skitters across it, admiring the beauty in its volatility, but seeing too that it is a less effective weapon. “Then prove it.” A challenge, the blade whirling in her direction in a lazy, caustic maneuver. “Destroy me.”

Is that the test? To fight that which she was not? Luminara frowns, uncertain, her hand drifting towards her own weapon. _But that’s not how I handle things_ … She thinks. She does not leap without looking, she does not give in to rash decisions, is not swayed by emotional impulse.

Luminara stays her hand.

“No.” She states, taking a step back and clasping her hands calmly.

“No?” An arched brow, a smirk.

Luminara takes a breath, squaring her shoulders, staring down all the glory of what she was not. “To accept your challenge is to accept that you have meaning.” Luminara states. “That you are right.” She swallows, but lifts her chin. “And you are not.”

A grin, pleased and vicious and haughty. “Are you so sure about that?” The other croons, lowering her weapon with a disappointed huff.

 _Am I_? Luminara questions. She _wants_ to be.

 _There is no want_. She recalls suddenly, a lesson she can’t remember learning, something she heard somewhere that stuck with her. _There is no need. There is what must be_.

_I must be._

_I am._

Luminara faces herself, and refuses to flinch. “You are a lie, a falsehood, and there is no purpose in attempting to destroy that which does not exist.” She declares. “I will not feed your existence by fighting in vain.”

The other falls quiet, watchful and intense, the blade she lowered so carelessly scorching the grass and ground by her feet.

Luminara trusts herself. Trusts that she is right. “I do not need passion. I have faith.”

Intense, emotional eyes soften and lower in respect and humility, a pleased flush darkening pale green cheeks. “You do.” She murmurs, proud and unashamed of it. “And that is _enough_ , Luminara Unduli.”


	35. Chapter 35

Lachas Bey sighs in relief when the Jedi’s vessel docks exactly on time, in spite of the brief tiff with planetary defense over the aggressive compliment of armorments on the sleek Mandalorian craft.

“ _It came that way_!” The younger jedi had protested over the comms. “ _It’s_ Mandalorian _. And so am I._ ”

“ _We are also_ ,” the elder had piped up. “ _Jedi, here on the personal invitation of the Queen and her betrothed_. _We are most certainly not here to threaten the people of Alderaan.”_

Mandalorian indeed, Lachas thinks, watching them dock and depart, the white sky reflecting in sharp angles off their colorful armor. The hatch opens and Lachas notes with some amusement that the elder flinches at the first gust of cold air that rushes up to meet him, and then seems to sigh in resignment, curling in on himself a little while the younger appears to trace a flurry of fine snowflakes as they dance on the light breeze.

It’s only an early frost, hardly the full glory of Alderaan’s winter, but the terse greeting Lachas is offered seems to convey a great deal of consternation on behalf of the Jedi Master in regards to the climate.

Beside Lachas, ready and waiting to abscond with the younger Jedi, Sojia, one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting, returns the social platitudes with a tad too much mirth.

~*~

“My master would like me to inform you that summer weddings are beautiful.” Obi-Wan’s gentle voice draws her attention as he enters the room, sans armor but with a padded Alderaani cloak tacked to his shoulders in its place over his black to white silks, the very same shade of deep jade green as the missing pauldrons. Breha is glad her tailor got the color right. The good humored grin on his face is an mediate balm to her building tension of trying to appease her very stressed staff and mediate between her less stressed but more fussy guests.

Orchestrating her wedding makes ruling her Queendom seem relaxing in comparison.

“Summer weddings are too soft.” Breha replies with a wry smile as she moves to greet him, clasping his arm in the Mandalorian way and cherishing the flicker of delight it brings to his face before he dips his head, turning up his hands in Alderaani politeness when Breha releases him.

“I will agree that winter seems far more your style.” Obi-Wan acquiesces with grace. “But at least let me tell him it’s not an open air ceremony.” He begs teasingly.

“Ben really does not do so well with the cold, does he?” Breha muses. Bail had told her as much, but the simple idea of a Jedi master being brought low by something so mundane as the shivers was so incongruous to her. “The pavilion will be heated.” She assures the teenager, who gives an exaggerated sigh of relief.

“He claims he has too much of the desert in his bones.” Obi-Wan informs her dryly. “But I told him he’s just getting old.”

Breha chuckles, but hides it behind her fingertips. “That was hardly courteous of you.”

“He immediately stopped shivering.” Obi-Wan grins, unrepentant. “He just likes to fuss, sometimes. You can’t let him get too far into it.”

Breha shakes her head. “I suppose you would know.” She replies. “And as dearly much as I enjoy listening to the trials you put your poor master through, we are short on time, and you need to go see the tailor for your wedding suit.”

To his credit, he doesn’t grimace at all. He bows with dignity, gently taking her hand and pressing her knuckles to his brow. “As the Queen wishes.”

“She does.” Breha remarks imperiously, taking joy in his fine mood and feeling her own stir back up. For all the arrangements and politics and strict traditions to be adhered to and honored, which ever weigh on the crown of the Queen, this _is_ Breha’s wedding, and she’s going to marry the other half of her soul. For a moment, she lets the bright promise of that fill her up, a bursting, internal effervescence that makes her giddy – contagiously so, if Obi-Wan’s bright demeanor is any measure.

“It’ll be perfect, I promise.” Obi-Wan swears, squeezing her fingers, not yet having released her hand.

“And you’re so sure, sweeping in at the last moment?” Breha lifts a brow, a teasing challenge.

His answering smirk is a soft, friendly thing. “Bail’s going to be there. Do you really care about anything more than that?”

 _Well, when he puts it like that_ ….

~*~

Bail has to cover his mouth with one hand to stifle his laughter at Ben’s stiff upper lip, sitting rigidly as a lady in waiting fusses over him, the Jedi Master having been soundly defeated in the matter of his hair.

“You were hardly opposed to flower crowns when last you were here.” She mutters sternly.

“This is not a flower crown.” The Jedi replies stiffly, maintaining his icy visage right up until the point he accidentally makes eye contact with the groom. Bail’s amusement, is, apparently, too much, and he relaxes into amused surrender. His hair has been braided back at the temples, some complicated knot being put together in the back, threaded with fine silver chains and soft pink buds, the tie in the back done with dark blue velvet ribbon, just a single touch of the royal blue.

Bail does not mention that Anina was perhaps taking out on the Jedi the fact that there was not much she could have done with Bail’s short hair, though she certainly tried.(He thinks she was also put out about doing Bail's hair as it meant she was not assisting with Breha's, so really, it was a cascade of consequences bearing down on the poor Jedi). As it was, there was a small silver branch of white flowers behind Bail's ear, trailing up into the coifed curve of his hair.

The Jedi was representing Bail’s House, it’s history and traditions, wearing dark grey under pale grey, under a cape so pale a silver it was nearly white, embroidered in the pink berries that were the Organa’s marriage totem, the color a match to the pink vest-coat he wore under the cape. He’d stand next to Bail’s father, a witness to Bail’s character, pledging on their honor, and the honor of the House they represented, to Breha that her match was well made, that her groom was just and faithful.

Bail, on the other hand, wore white threaded with silver-gold under deep red velvet, and a sheer cape with his marriage totem entwined with the bronze of House Antilles. Breha would not – perhaps even could not, given her position – completely reconcile with her prior House, but Bail would honor his wife by honoring them. They were a part of her, after all, and Bail had a vested interest in ensuring her mother and grandfather held him in their good graces. Breha’s veil would be similarly trimmed, and she had uttered to him a quiet gratitude, after finally conceding after a tense two hours of terse argument and counterargument.

“It’s a regret I don’t want you to have.” Bail had pled softly, and that had buckled the last of Breha’s proud refusal. She had already conceded to wear her mother’s bronze hair pins.

Steel bracers adorned his sleeves, engraved with the mountains of Alderaan – a more ornamental version of what he typically wore, and under the cuff and edge was tucked a single glimpse of deep royal blue silk.

“It’s mine and Breha’s wedding.” Bail reminds his friend, encouraging patience and forbearance.

Ben’s eyes alight on him, lips curling with a soft edged smirk. “The things I would do for you and Breha.” He sighs with mock resignedment. “I suppose I will survive.”

“Your sacrifice is greatly appreciated.” Bail chuffs.

Ben’s expression shifts, something sweeter, more sincere and wholly genuine. “It’s no sacrifice, my friend.”

Bail feels that shift within himself as well, fiercely glad to have this man to stand beside him. “Thank you.” He replies, just as intently, and encompassing far more in those simple words than this moment here and now.

He’s rewarded with a smile, quiet and dear.

At least until Anina clucks her tongue and pinches at his beard. “Now, how much will you allow me to do with this?” She endeavors, with a brisk aggressiveness that does not invite challenge.

“I’d rather not.” The Jedi pleads.

~*~

Fat white flakes twirl lazily past tall windows, flaring bright in pale, silvery sunshine. Trees glitter with frost, and the mountains are dark blue and violet in the background, threaded through with glacier white and green. Woven branches of thick red berries are twined with sprays of white and pink buds, tied off with dark blue ribbon, trailing white satin to the floor.

The high, arched roof of the grand pavilion gleams gold, reflecting off the polished, dark marble floor, making the room brim with honeyed tint.

Breha is a vision of layers upon layers of red on red silk, gold and bronze gleaming around her wrists, her neck, in her hair; her skirts shimmering with garnet and ruby beads, her red velvet bodice, a match to her grooms vest-coat, absorbing light in rich tones, matching her lips; accenting the dark beauty of her eyes, the thick gloss of her hair, pinned with red-hearted white blossoms, trailing pearls down her veil.

Bail Organa, a man known for the art and skill of his oration, is struck momentarily speechless, endearing him greatly to their guests, whose brief wave of chuckling laughter gives him the time he needs to remember what he is supposed to say, a rare warmth rising to his cheeks that his his bride laughing at him with her eyes.

“ _Dear_.” Ben hears Bail manage to sigh, put upon by her silent teasing.

“ _Love_.” Breha whispers back, lips pursed to repress a grin.

Ben has no such compunction, grinning broadly when Breha catches his eye. They are young, and beautiful, and brilliant, and he cherishes them, and this moment for them, blest to be a part of it.

His padawan, decked in white and royal blue and just hints of bronzen-gold, is equally giddy, but maintaining his composure better, his expression more reassuring when Bail catches his eye, as his wife had caught Ben’s, given their stations over respective shoulders. Breha’s bridesmaid and dear friend, beside Obi-Wan, is less reassuring, her raised brow a tad chiding, which sobers the groom with abashment.

Bail clears his throat, and finds his voice, level and bold and just a hint breathless.

He speaks first, his affection and his commitment, his vows and his dreams all laid out; Breha second, as her commitments are grander, and her vows not only for her husband, but for her people as their Queen, affirmed to encompass this new union, and all the promise it held, for her and her world.

Bail drops to a knee, bows his head and presses a kiss to her palm. She grants upon him the helm of the Consort-King of Alderaan, and he accepts the responsibility with reverence and true faith.

Breha pulls him to his feet and presses a careful kiss to his lips, Bail cupping her jaw, trailing a gentle thumb over her cheek before they part. They’re tender with each other, enamored and loving, but the love in their gazes is not soft, it is not sweet. It’s a deep, bright-sharp, unyielding thing between them, full of sacrifices and shared strength, less about each other and themselves than it is about all they hope to achieve, and yet _more_ for it than the passionate romances of ballads and holodramas.

They turn gracefully to descend into the crowd of their guests and political allies and a few well chosen enemies. Ben pauses before dropping into step beside Bail, allowing Bails father to meet him first. Bail leans into his wife briefly, whispering into the shell of her ear.

“I love you.” He tells her again, brief and private and as sincere as every vow he has made today.

Breha gives him an arched, saucy smile. “I know.” She teases, and then kisses him again for good measure.

“I love you too.”


	36. Chapter 36

The temple has jitters.

The last few weeks of Shmi’s Skywalkers pregnancy are full of lingering side-long glances, awkwardly-phrased inquiries, and skittish giddiness.

There is no shortage of hovering, waiting hands eager to be of help as she waddles about the Temple – and she does waddle. Several awkward inquiries are born out of real concern for the large girth on the sturdy but still somewhat petite woman.

But it is the Council members who have taken to less than subtly escorting her, partly for conversation and partly because they are first in line when it comes to being prepared to leap should she seem to tilt in the slightest on her shifting, awkward balance. Seeing her with Master Koon and his cautiously deferential Padawan Pack, or with Masters Yoda and Yaddle on either side, or Master Fisto and the twins, or, most regularly, with Master Fay becomes quite commonplace. Less commonplace but perhaps more sweet is the line-up of padawans and disciples who leap at the opportunity to escort her any moment she happens to be walking alone, looking very small and very young and very serious, as if their knighthood hinged on this sacred duty. The non-mammalian races among them regard her pregnancy with a mix of awe and perplexity and great concern.

Shmi deals with them…. As gracefully as she can, which is perhaps far more so than others – even other jedi – would have. Her sons take to flanking her like boundary guards, warding off nervously polite jedi with sharp looks (in Jax’s case) and loud exclamations (on Anakin’s part).

She has two rounds of false contractions that leave everyone in the Temple restless and edgy, both for the new and still somewhat deviant situation, and for the emotional spill-over of a not-inconsiderably-powerful Force-Sensitive who is very hormonal, frustrated, and in pain. She takes to pacing the gardens when her quarters – still shared with her former master and her sons, though her new housing assignment is ready and waiting – seem too small and the corridor too populated. More than one neighbor wakes up and steps out their door in concern. Shaak Ti, giving her former padawan a bracing arm to hold while she paced, gently shoos them away.

It leaves the Jedi unable to meditate in the garden while Shmi’s false contractions last, but no one begrudges her for it. A few healers and their staff in training never seem to be very far away, taking notes on the symptoms and effects that their resident pregnant Jedi Knight has on her surroundings and her peers.

It is perhaps a mercy that Master Sinube was the one to help Shmi rise from breakfast in the dining hall just as her water broke, as the aging cosian’s reaction was to look down with some surprise, and then utter a simple “Oh.”

Obi-Wan inhaled his breakfast rice and promptly choked, coughing, Tholme went white as a sheet, the boys (and Aayla) looked at the sudden wet with crinkled, embarrassed faces on their mother’s behalf, and Ben had the pleasure of meeting Shmi’s brown eyes. She looked pleasantly relieved, having been growing more and more impatient for her daughter to come into the world.

“Are you up for walking to the Halls?” Ben inquires sanguinely, having learned not to lurch at Shmi for every little thing after earning himself the less patient edges of her temper for doing so.

He’d offer to Shadow-Walk her, but Master Healer Ni Hiella had threatened to break his legs if he even thought about doing so when the effects such techniques might have on the unborn were as yet unknown and unstudied. The Nightsister’s probably knew, but contact with Dathomir was limited, exchange or no exchange. And besides, the Healer would not take their word for it – not without properly documented research to back it up.

It was uncharacteristically cautious of Ni Hiella, Ben thinks, but then, Shmi Skywalker’s daughter was to be the Temple’s first baby. So long as Shmi was not in danger and thus in need of immediate transportation directly to the healers, Ben would refrain from anything drastic.

“Are you offering to carry me?” Shmi inquires, thanking Master Sinube with a gentle touch and a gracious smile, and then steadying herself by placing her other hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder while he wheezes, still clearing his windpipe.

“I would.” Ben smirks. Shmi smiles, shaking her head.

“I am capable of walking.”

“Very well.” Ben nods, rising and stepping away himself to escort her. “Just don’t have this baby before we get there.” He eyes Tholme, who has yet to move, in spite of Aayla’s tugging on her tabbards with increasing impatience.

“Don’t tempt me.” Shmi retorts, moving to lay a palm over first Anakin’s head, and then Jax’s, as she comes around the table. “Boys, be good.”

She puases then, locking a sharp brown gaze on Tholme, and he finally starts, lurching to his feet in a staggering manner. Tholme had yet to find a middle ground between intensely fretful hovering and aloof near skittishness, oscillating more drastically between the two the farther along Shmi got. This was made worse by the fact that he _knew_ it irritated Shmi, and yet refused – out of concern - to have the argument he could clearly see brewing in her eyes and her shortening patience. The boys had started teasing the older master about it, and he had settled for being close, watchful, and quiet the last few days, which seemed more like avoidance than balance, but Ben resolved not to press the issue.

 _He_ didn’t want to stress Shmi Skywalker either, and their relationship was not particularly any of his business. They cared for one another, he knows, and they both tried to do the best they could by each other, and somewhere in there just could not seem to be on even footing without stepping on each others toes. But then, they’d been like that from the first.

“Mom, can’t we come?” Anakin whines, Jax backing him up with expressive hands.

“You can see her when she’s born.” Shmi replies sternly. “Which may not be for hours. Go to class, mind Obi-Wan, be good.”

They pout. “Yes, mom.”

~*~

“I am not placing a bet.” Obi-Wan insists, eyes narrowed at Tsui, who smiles thinly, unrepentant.

Apparently, there are a lot of bets – on the baby’s birth weight, on her hair color, on her eye color, on what time she’ll be born.

“Can Jax pace a bet?” Anakin asks shrilly, excited and grinning brightly. Beside him, Jax bounces in his seat, looking smug, and Obi-Wan turns his narrowed eyes on the little psychic.

“No.” Obi-Wan shuts them down. They pout, and Tsui sighs. Obi-Wan turns back to his friend and crosses his arms.

“Anyone winning bets better do something _exceptionally_ nice for Shmi.” He warns sternly. “She’s the one doing all the work.”

“I’ll make it known.” Tsui nods sagely, and scuttles away. Obi-Wan watches him go skeptically, fairly certain Yaddle’s padawan is not only running the bets for his peers, but for their elders as well – something he’s absolutely certain of when his friend weaves through the salles and goes right up to Master Fisto.

Shaking his head, Obi-Wan turns back to the boys, who are only halfheartedly moving through their basic forms, farm more interested in trying to trip each other up. “What is Jax’s prediction?” He asks, curious.

Jax falls out of his form and dashes up to Obi-Wan, holding his arms up. Having just turned and nearly turned seven, the boys are getting to old and too gangly for Obi-Wan to be picking them up like this, but he does it anyways. He hoists the boy up onto his hip, and Jax stares at him with dark brown eyes and a brilliant grin. He closes his eyes, and tilts his head forward, and Obi-Wan relaxes his shields, letting the boy share with him.

His master warns him – and Jax - to be careful about this, because they can accidentally form a mental link if they’re not, but Obi-Wan delights that Jax is starting to trust him enough, to feel safe enough, to share with him like this.

What Obi-Wan sees, however, isn’t a baby. It’s a girl about the same age the boys are now. She looks a terrible lot like Anakin - the same soft mouth and divoted chin as Shmi, the same sharp brow and rising cheekbones as her older brother. She’s got the same sweet, _blinding_ Skywalker smile. But she also has her father’s coloring – thick black hair and muted green eyes. Obi-Wan can almost, almost hear her laugh, but the impression fades before he can get a grasp on it.

He’s smiling so hard his face hurts.

“She’s gonna be perfect.” Anakin whispers giddily, bouncing on his toes.

“Yeah.” Obi-Wan agrees. “You bet.”

~*~

Ben, Shaak Ti, and Tholme have been waiting _hours_ in stilted meditation, but none of them begrudge the fact that Anakin and Jax race in as soon as the birth is announced, and get to see their mother – and their new baby sister - first while Ni Hiella guards the door.

Ben had – not borne the time as well as he had hoped he would have, but the last birth he’d attended….he prefers not to dwell on it, and all he’s been doing while staring at the sealed door ahead of him is dwelling on it.

And then there had been a twist in the Force, a separation, a ripple of pure light dancing through the Temple, and then _everyone_ knew.

Ben had breathed out, Tholme had jumped to his feet, and Shaak Ti had titled her head back, giving a small delicate puff of a pleased laugh. Across the Temple, Anakin and Jax Skywalker had shrieked with joy, and _everyone_ felt _that_ too.

The healer allows Tholme in next, once the boys are settled and Shmi seems well, and Ben turns on Shaak Ti, who has risen to her feet.

“This doesn’t make that girl a member of your lineage.” He insists, remembering a similar argument long ago.

“I will fight you on that principle, Ben Naasade, and I will win.” Shaak Ti replies primly, silver eyes alight as she looks down at him, brimming with quiet pleasure. Ben huffs, but finds himself filled to the brim with similar delight as well.

It would not surprise either of them to find the entire Tempe shared that feeling, the Force bright with promise.

~*~

It takes Shmi Skywalker seven days to name her daughter.

It is so early in the morning it is still dark in the gardens. Shmi is exhausted, but wide awake, feeling the mist that precedes the early morning rain cycle tickle against her skin. Her body aches still, but it is not an ache she begrudges.

Ben is taking his rotation of assisting Shmi through the night cycle, pacing back and forth with the infant after a feeding, trying to calm hiccuping wails with moderate success. Shmi only understands scraps of Mando’a, but she can recognize its cadence, as her friend murmurs softly to her daughter.

Her daughter. The first Skywalker born _free_ in generations.

Shmi doesn’t realize he’s stopped murmuring until Ben is crouched in front of her, faint shades of red gleaming in his hair, just flashing silver near his temples, and his eyes bluer in the dark, full of concern.

“Shmi?” He reaches for her face, pausing, and it is then that Shmi realizes she’s crying. His entire expression softens with kindness, with compassion. “Perhaps we should go back. She’s nearly settled, and you must be very tired.”

Shmi laughs. She is tired, but she is also very much… not awake, she thinks. Awake is not quite the word for what she feels. Alive.

She feels very _alive_. She is brimming with it, far too much to sleep.

“Thank you.” Shmi smiles, watery and fond, and reaches out to cup his very confused but flattered face. She kisses his brow, wishing for all that worlds that there was a proper way to express what she feels, her gratitude and her love for the hard, demanding, worthy journey that has lead her right here, to a moment she has been allowed to have because of this man.

Shmi looks down at her daughter, who is also wide awake, tiny face scrunched up as she watches them, half her fingers shoved in her mouth.

“Her name is Omi Skywalker.” Shmi tells him first, the greatest gift she can offer. “She Who Lights the Way.”


End file.
